1111 


:^^;v.^  •-;«•• 

•«k\  "V*  •. •.;'•'  '.  '-'-.',*.      '•  w> 

•~-;.**yJ 


^••^.:-^  ^.^ 


LIBRARY 

of  California 

IRVINE 


yo  37 


/  Jl       £2  j)    p,  i  AA 

1 4«Q 

A»  •/ 


ALVIRA, 


THE  HEROINE  OF  VESUVIUS. 


A  REMARKABLE  SENSATION  OF  THE 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


FOUNDED  ON  FACTS  RECOR.r>iD  7N  THE  ACTS  OF  CANONIZATION 
OF  ST.  FRANCIS  OF  JEROME. 


BY  REV.  A.  J.  O'REILLY,  D.D., 

Author  of  the  "  Martyrs  of  the  Coliseum,"  "  Victims  of  the  Mamertine, 
"  The  Double  Triumph,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK: 

D.    &    J.    SADLIER    &    CO., 

33  BARCLAY  STREET  AND  38  PARK  PLACE. 


ps 

^ 

07 


Copyright, 

!>.  *  J.  SADLIER  &  CO, 
1885. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  PENITENT  SAINTS. 

THE  interesting  and  instructive  character  of  this 
sensational  narrative,  which  we  cull  from  the  traditions 
of  a  past  generation,  must  cover  the  shortcomings 
of  the  pen  that  has  labored  to  present  it  in  an  English 
dress.  x 

We  are  aware  that  the  propriety  of  drawing  from 
the  oblivion  of  forgotten  literature  such  a  story  will  be 
questioned.  The  decay  of  the  chivalrous  spirit  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  the  prudish,  puritanical  code  of  mor 
ality  that  has  superseded  the  simple  manners  of  our 
forefathers,  render  it  hazardous  to  cast  into  the  hands 
of  the  present  generation  the  thrilling  records  of  sin 
and  repentance  such  as  they  were  seen  and  recorded 
in  days  gone  by.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  a  literature 
professedly  false,  and  which  paints  in  fascinating 
colors  the  various  phases  of  unrepented  vice  and 
crime,  without  the  redeeming  shadows  of  honor 
and  Christian  morality,  our  little  volume  must  fall  a 
welcome  sunbeam.  The  strange  career  of  our  hero 
ine  constitutes  a  sensational  biography  charming  and 
beautiful  in  the  moral  it  presents. 

The  evils  of  mixed  marriages,  of  secret  societies,  of 
intemperance,  and  the  indulgence  of  self-love  in  ar- 


iv  Introduction. 

dent  and  enthusiastic  youth,  find  here  the  record  of 
their  fatal  influence  on  social  life,  reflected  through 
the  medium  of  historical  facts.  Therefore  we  present 
to  the  young  a  chapter  of  warning — a  tale  of  the  past 
with  a  deep  moral  for  the  present. 

The  circumstances  of  our  tale  are  extraordinary. 
A  young  girl  dresses  in  male  attire,  murders  her  fa 
ther,  becomes  an  officer  in  the  army,  goes  through 
the  horrors  of  a  battle,  and  dies  a  saint. 

Truly  we  have  here  matter  sensational  enough  for 
the  most  exacting  novelist ;  but  we  disclaim  all  effort 
to  play  upon  the  passions,  or  add  another  work  of  fic 
tion  to  the  mass  of  irreligious  trash  so  powerful  in  the 
employ  of  the  evil  one  for  the  seduction  of  youth. 
In  the  varied  scenes  of  life  there  are  many  actions 
influenced  by  secret  motives  known  only  to  the  heart 
that  harbors  them.  Not  all  are  dishonorable.  It  takes 
a  great  deal  of  guilt  to  make  a  person  as  black  as 
he  is  painted  by  his  enemies.  Many  a  brave  heart 
has,  under  the  garb  of  an  impropriety,  accomplished 
heroic  acts  of  self-denial. 

History  is  teeming  with  instances  where  the  love 
of  creatures,  and  even  the  holier  and  more  sublime  love 
of  the  Creator,  have,  in  moments  of  enthusiasm,  induc 
ed  tender  females  to  forget  the  weakness  of  their  sex 
and  successfully  fulfil  the  spheres  of  manhood.  These 
scenes,  so  censurable,  are  extraordinary  more  from  the 
rarity  of  their  occurrence  than  from  the  motives  that 
inspire  them,  and  thus  our  tale  draws  much  of  its 
thrilling  interest  from  the  unique  character  of  its  de 
tails. 

"  But  what  a  saint !  "  we  fancy  we  hear  whisper 
ed  by  the  fastidious  and  scrupulous  into  whose  hands 
our  little  work  may  fall. 


Introduction.  v 

Inadvertently  the  thought  will  find  a  similar  ex 
pression  from  the  superficial  reader ;  but  if  we  con 
sider  a  little,  our  heroine  presents  a  career  not  more 
extraordinary  than  those  that  excite  our  surprise  in 
the  lives  of  the  penitent  saints  venerated  on  the  altars 
of  the  Church.  Sanctity  is  not  to  be  judged  by  ante- 
cedents.  The  soul  crimsoned  with  guilt  may,  in  the 
crucible  of  repentance,  become  white  like  the  crystal 
snow  before  it  touches  the  earth.  This  consoling 
thought  is  not  a  mere  assertion,  but  a  matter  of  faith 
confirmed  by  fact.  There  are  as  great  names  among 
the  penitent  saints  of  the  Church  as  amongst  the 
few  brilliant  stars  whose  baptismal  innocence  was 
never  dimmed  by  any  cloud. 

Advance  the  rule  that  the  early  excesses  of  the 
penitent  saints  must  debar  them  from  the  esteem 
their  heroic  repentance  has  won ;  then  we  must  tear 
to  pieces  the  consoling  volumes  of  hagiology,  we 
must  drag  down  Paul,  Peter,  Augustine,  Jerome,  Mag 
dalen,  and  a  host  of  illustrious  penitents  from  their 
thrones  amidst  the  galaxy  of  the  elect,  and  cast  the 
thrilling  records  of  their  repentance  into  the  oblivion 
their  early  career  would  seem  to  merit.  If  we  are  to 
have  no  saints  but  those  of  whom  it  is  testified  they 
never  did  a  wrong  act,  then  the  catalogue  of  sanctity 
will  be  reduced  to  baptized  infants  who  died  before 
coming  to  the  use  of  reason,  and  a  few  favored  adults 
who  could  be  counted  on  the  fingers. 

Is  it  not  rather  the  spirit  and  practice  of  the  Church 
to  propose  to  her  erring  children  the  heroic  example 
of  souls  who  passed  through  the  storms  and  trials  of 
life,  who  had  the  same  weaknesses  to  contend  with,  the 
same  enemies  to  combat,  as  they  have,  whose  triumph 
is  her  glory  and  her  crown  ?  The  Catholic  Church, 


vi  Introduction. 

which  has  so  successfully  promoted  the  civilization  of 
society  and  the  moral  regeneration  of  nations,  achieved 
her  triumph  by  the  conversion  of  those  she  first  drew 
from  darkness.  Placed  as  lights  on  the  rocks  of  eter 
nity,  and  shining  on  us  who  are  yet  tossed  about  on 
the  stormy  sea  of  time,  the  penitent  saints  serve  us  as 
saving  beacons  to  guide  our  course  during  the  tem 
pest.  Many  a  feeble  soul  would  have  suffered  ship 
wreck  had  it  not  taken  refuge  near  those  tutelary 
towers  where  are  suspended  the  memorial  deeds  of 
the  sainted  heroes  whose  armor  was  sackcloth,  whose 
watchword  the  sigh  of  repentance  poured  out  in  the 
lonely  midnight. 

While  Augustine  was  struggling  with  the  attractions 
of  the  world  which  had  seduced  his  warm  African 
heart,  whose  gilded  chains  seemed  once  so  light,  he 
animated  himself  to  Christian  courage  by  the  ex 
amples  of  virtue  which  he  had  seen  crowned  in  the 
Church  triumphant. 

"  Canst  thou  not  do,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  what 
these  have  done  ?  Timid  youths  and  tender  maid 
ens  have  abandoned  the  deceitful  joys  of  time  for  the 
imperishable  goods  of  eternity ;  canst  thou  not  do 
likewise  ?  Were  these  lions,  and  art  thou  a  timid 
deer?"  Thus  this  illustrious  penitent,  who  was  one 
of  the  brightest  lights  of  Christianity,  has  made  known 
to  us  the  triumph  he  gained  in  his  internal  struggles 
by  the  examples  of  his  predecessors  in  the  brave  band 
of  penitents  who  shed  a  luminous  ray  on  the  pitchy 
darkness  of  his  path. 

The  life  of  St.  Anthony,  written  by  St.  Athanasius, 
produced  such  a  sensation  in  the  Christian  world  that 
the  desolate  caverns  of  Thebais  were  not  able  to  re 
ceive  all  who  wished  to  imitate  that  holy  solitary 


Introduction.  vii 

Roman  matrons  were  then  seen  to  create  for  them 
selves  a  solitude  in  the  heart  of  their  luxurious  capi 
tal;  offices  of  the  palace,  bedizened  in  purple  and 
gold,  deserted  the  court,  amid  the  rejoicings  of  a 
festival,  for  the  date-tree  and  brackish  rivulets  of 
Upper  Egypt ! 

Where,  then,  our  error  in  drawing  from  the  archives 
of  the  past  another  beautiful  and  thrilling  tale  of  re 
pentance  which  may  tall  with  cheerful  rays  of  en 
couragement  on  the  soul  engaged  in  the  fierce  com 
bat  with  self? 

To  us  the  simple,  touching  story  ot  Alvira  has 
brought  a  charm  and  a  balm.  Seeking  to  impart  to 
others  its  interest,  its  amusement,  and  its  moral,  we 
cast  it  afloat  on  the  sea  ot  literature,  to  meet,  pro 
bably,  a  premature  grave  in  this  age  of  irreligion  and 
presumptuous  denial  of  the  necessities  of  penance. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Paris  One  Hundred  and  Fifty  Years  Ago,         .         5 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Usurer,     .         .         .         .          .         .  10 

CHAPTER  III. 
A    Mixed    Marriage,          .         .         .         .  13 

CHAPTER  IV. 
A  Youth  Trained  in  the  Way  he  should  Walk,  .        18 

CHAPTER  V. 

Our  Heroines,  .          .         .         .         .         .         .27 

CHAPTER  VI. 
A  Secret  Revealed,  .  33 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Tears  on  Earth,  Joy  in  Heaven,        ...       42 
1 


2  Contents. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

P\GE 

Madeleine's  Happy  Death,        ....       48 

CHAPTER  IX. 

One  Abyss  Invokes  Another,     .         .         .  52 

CHAPTER  X. 
On  the  Trail, 57 

CHAPTER  XL 
The  Flight, 62 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Geneva,    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  71 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
The  Secret  Societies,         .....       75 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
The  Freemason's  Home,  ....       89 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Tragedy  in  the  Mountains.       ....       96 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
A  Funeral  in  the  Snow,     .         .         .         .         .no 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
An  Unwritten  Page, 115 


Contents.  3 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

PAGE 

In   Uniform,  125 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Remorse,  .  I31 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Naples,     ........     141 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
Engagement  with  Brigands,      ....     147 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  Morning  After  the  Battle,  .         .         .156 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Return — A  Triumph,         .         .         .         .         .161 

CHAPTER    XXIV. 
Alvira's  Confession,  .         .         .         .         .165 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
Honor  Saved, 183 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Repentance,  190 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
The  Privileges  of  Holy  Souls,    .         .         .  199 


4  Contents. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

PAGE 

A  Vision  of  Purgatory — A  Dear  One  Saved,     .     202 

CHAPTER   XXIX. 
Unexpected  Meeting,        .....     207 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
Conclusion,       .        .         .         .         .         .         .214 


ALVIRA. 

CHAPTER  I. 

PARIS    ONE    HUNDRED  AND    FIFTY    YEARS  AGO. 

"  PARIS  is  on  fire  ! "  "  The  Tuileries 
burnt !  "  "  The  Hotel  de  Ville  in  ashes  !  " 
There  are  few  who  do  not  remember  how 
the  world  was  electrified  with  the  telegrams 
that  a  few  years  ago  announced  the  destruc 
tion  of  the  French  capital.  It  was  the  tra 
gic  finale  of  a  disastrous  war  between  rival 
nations ;  yet  the  flames  were  not  sent  on 
high  to  the  neutral  heavens  to  be  the  bea 
con  of  triumph  and  revenge  of  a  conquer 
ing  army,  but  set  on  fire  by  its  own  people, 
who,  in  a  fanaticism  unequalled  in  the  his 
tory  of  nations,  would  see  their  beautiful 


6       Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

city  a  heap  of  ashes  rather  than  a  flourish 
ing  capital  in  the  power  of  its  rightful  rulers. 
Fast  were  the  devouring  elements  leap 
ing  through  the  palaces  and  superb  public 
buildings  of  the  city ;  the  petroleum  flames 
were  ascending  from  basement  to  roof; 
streets  were  in  sheets  of  fire  ;  the  charred 
beams  were  breaking ;  the  walls  fell  with 
thundering  crash — the  empress  city  was  in 
deed  on  fire.  Like  the  winds  unchained  by 
the  storm-god,  the  passions  of  men  marked 
their  accursed  sweep  over  the  fairest  city 
of  Europe  in  torrents  of  human  blood  and 
the  wreck  of  material  grandeur. 

Those  who  have  visited  the  superb  queen 
of  cities  as  she  once  flourished  in  our  days 
could  not,  even  in  imagination,  grasp  the 
contrast  between  Paris  of  the  present  and 
the  Paris  of  two  hundred  years  ago.  With 
a  power  more  destructive  than  the  petro 
leum  of  the  Commune,  we  must,  in  thought, 
sweep  away  the  Tuileries,  the  boulevards, 
the  Opera-House  and  superb  buildings  that 
surround  the  Champs  Elysees ;  on  their 
site  we  must  build  old,  tottering,  ill-shaped 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.        7 

houses,  six  and  seven  stories  high,  confin 
ing  narrow  and  dirty  streets  that  wind  in 
lanes  and  alleys  into  serpentine  labyrinths, 
reeking  with  filthy  odors  and  noxious  va 
pors.  Fill  those  narrow  streets  with  a  lazy, 
ill -clad  people — men  in  blouse  and  women 
in  short  skirts  and  clogs,  squatting  on  the 
steps  of  antiquated  cafes,  smoking  canes 
steeped  in  opium,  awaiting  the  beck  of 
some  political  firebrand  to  tear  each  other 
to  pieces — and  in  this  description  you  place 
before  the  mind's  eye  the  city  some  writers 
have  painted  as  the  Paris  of  two  hundred 
years  ago. 

But  the  old  city  has  passed  away.  Like 
the  fabulous  creations  we  have  read  of  in 
the  tales  of  childhood,  palaces,  temples,  bou 
levards,  and  theatres  have  sprung  up  on  the 
site  of  the  antiquated  and  labyrinthine  city. 
Under  the  dynasty  of  the  Napoleons  the 
capital  was  rebuilt  with  lavish  magnificence. 
Accustomed  to  gaze  on  the  splendor  of  the 
sun,  we  seldom  advert  to  its  real  magnifi 
cence  in  our  universe;  but  pour  its  golden 
flood  on  the  sightless  eyeball,  and  all  Ian- 


8       Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

guage  would  fail  to  tell  the  impression  on 
the  paralyzed  soul.  Thus,  in  a  minor  de 
gree,  the  emigrant  from  the  southern  seas, 
who  has  been  for  years  amongst  the  cab 
ins  on  the  outskirts  of  uncultivated  plains, 
where  cities  were  built  of  huts,  where  spire- 
less  churches  of  thatched  roof  served  for  the 
basilicas  of  divine  worship,  and  where  pub 
lic  justice  was  administered  under  canvas, 
is  startled  and  delighted  with  the  refine 
ment  and  civilization  of  his  more  favored 
fellow-mortal  who  lives  in  the  French  capi 
tal. 

Paris  has  been  rudely  disfigured  in  the 
fury  of  her  Communist  storm  ;  yet,  in  the 
invincible  energy  of  the  French  character, 
the  people  who  paid  to  the  conquering 
nation  in  fifteen  months  nine  milliards  of 
francs  will  restore  the  broken  ornaments 
of  the  empress  city.  From  the  smoking 
walls  and  unsightly  ruins  of  bureaux  and 
palaces  that  wring  a  tear  from  the  patriot, 
France  will  see  life  restored  to  the  emblem 
of  her  greatness,  that,  phoenix-like,  will  rise 
on  the  horizon  of  time  to  claim  for  the 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.       9 

future  generation  her  position  among  the 
first-rate  powers  of  Europe. 

To  the  old  city  we  must  wend  our  way 
in  thought.  Crossing  the  venerable  bridge 
at  Notre  Dame,  we  enter  at  once  the  Rue 
de  Seine,  where  we  pause  before  the  bank 
and  residence  of  Gassier 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    USURER. 

AT  a  desk  in  the  office  we  observe  a  low- 
sized,  whiskered  man.  Intelligence  beams 
from  a  lofty  brow ;  sharp  features  and  aqui 
line  nose  tell  of  Jewish  character ;  his  eye 
glistens  and  dulls  as  the  heaving  heart 
throbs  with  its  tides  of  joy  and  sorrow. 
Speculation,  that  glides  at  times  into  gol 
den  dreams,  brightens  his  whole  features 
with  a  sunbeam  of  joy;  but  suddenly  it  is 
clouded.  Some  unseen  intruder  casts  a 
baneful  shadow  on  the  ungrasped  prize ;. 
the  features  of  the  usurer  contract,  the 
hand  is  clenched,  the  brow  is  wrinkled,  and 
woe  betide  the  luckless  debtor  whose  mis 
fortunes  would  lead  him  to  the  banker's 
bureau  during  the  eclipse  of  his  good-hu 
mor  ! 

Cassier  was  a  banker  by  name,  but  in, 
10 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      1 1 

reality  dealt  in  usurious  loans,  Shylock-like 
wringing  the  pound  of  flesh  from  the  victims 
of  his  avarice.  He  was  known  and  dread 
ed  by  all  the  honest  tradesmen  of  the  city  ; 
the  curse  of  the  orphan  and  the  widow, 
whom  he  unfeelingly  drove  into  the  streets, 
followed  in  his  path  ;  the  children  stopped 
their  games  and  hid  until  he  passed.  That 
repulsive  character  which  haunts  the  evil 
doers  of  society  marked  the  aged  ban  er 
as  an  object  of  dread  and  scorn  to  his  im 
mediate  neighbors. 

In  religion  Gassier  at  first  strongly  ad 
vocated  the  principles  of  Lutheranism  ;  but, 
as  is  ever  the  case  with  those  set  adrift  on 
the  sea  of  doubt,  freed  from  the  anchor  of 
faith,  the  definite  character  of  his  belief  was 
shipwrecked  in  a  confusion  of  ideas.  At 
length  he  lapsed  into  the  negative  deism 
of  the  French  infidels,  just  then  commenc 
ing  to  gain  ground  in  France.  He  joined 
them  in  their  secret  gatherings,  and  join 
ed  them,  too,  in  open  blasphemies  against 
God  and  plottings  against  the  stability 
of  the  Government.  The  blood  chills  at 


12     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

reading  some  of  the  awful  oaths  admin 
istered  to  the  partisans  of  those  secret  so 
cieties.  They  proposed  to  war  against 
God,  to  sweep  away  all  salutary  checks 
against  the  indulgence  of  passion,  to  level 
the  altar  and  the  throne,  and  advocated  the 
daims  of  those  impious  theories  that  in 
modern  times  have  found  their  fullest  de 
velopment  in  Mormonism  and  Commun 
ism. 

Further  on  we  shall  find  this  noxious 
weed,  that  flourishes  in  the  vineyards 
whose  hedges  are  broken  down,  producing 
its  poisonous  fruit.  But  it  was  at  this  pe 
riod  of  our  history  that  he  became  a  fre 
quent  attendant  at  their  reunions,  returning 
at  midnight,  half  intoxicated,  to  pour  into 
the  horrified  ears  of  his  wife  and  children 
the  issue  of  the  last  blasphemous  and  revo 
lutionary  debate  that  marked  the  progress 
and  development  of  their  impious  tenden 
cies. 

No  wonder  Heaven  sent  on  the  Gassier 
family  the  curse  that  forms  the  thrill  of 
our  tragic  memoir. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    MIXED    MARRIAGE. 

THE  Catholic  Church  has  placed  restric 
tions  on  unions  that  are  not  blessed  by 
Heaven.  Benedict  XIV.  has  called  them 
detestable.  A  sad  experience  has  proved 
the  wisdom  of  the  warning.  When  the 
love  that  has  existed  in  the  blinding  fervor 
of  passion  has  subsided  into  the  realities  of 
every-day  life,  the  bond  of  nuptial  duty  will 
be  religion.  But  the  conflict  of  religious 
sentiment  produces  a  duvided  camp. 

The  offspring  must  of  necessity  be  of  ne 
gative  faith.  When  intelligence  dawns  on 
the  young  soul,  its  first  reasoning  powers 
are  caught  in  a  dilemma.  Reverential  and 
filial  awe  chains  the  child  to  father  and 
chains  it  to  mother;  but  the  father  may 
sternly  command  the  Methodist  chapel  for 
Sunday  service  ;  the  mother  will  wish  to  see 

13 


1 4     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

her  little  one  worship  before  the  altars  of 
the  Church.  Fear  or  love  wins  the  trusting 
child,  but  neither  gains  a  sincere  believer. 

See  that  young  mother,  silent  and  fretful ; 
the  rouge  that  grief  gives  the  moistened 
eye  tells  its  own  tale  of  secret  weeping. 

Trusting,  confiding  in  the  power  of  young 
love,  attracted  by  the  wealth,  the  family,  or 
the  manners  of  her  suitor,  she  allows  the 
indissoluble  tie  to  bind  her  in  unholy 
wedlock.  Soon  the  faith  she  has  trifled 
with  assumes  its  mastery  in  her  repentant 
heart,  but  liberty  is  gone ;  for  the  dream 
of  conjugal  bliss  which  dazzled  when  mak 
ing  her  choice,  she  finds  herself  plunged  for 
life  into  the  most  galling  and  irremediable 
of  human  sorrows — secret  domestic  perse 
cution.  Few  brave  the  trial ;  the  larger 
number  go  with  the  current  to  the  greater 
evil  of  apostasy. 

Gassier  loved  a  beautiful  Catholic  girl 
named  Madeleine.  Blinded  by  the  strong 
er  passion,  he  waived  religious  prejudice. 
He  wooed,  he  promised,  he  won.  The 
timid  Madeleine,  beneath  her  rich  suitor 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      15 

in  position,  dazzled  by  wealth,  and  de 
coyed  by  the  fair  promises  that  so  often 
deceive  the  confiding  character  of  girl 
hood,  gave  her  hand  and  her  heart  to  a 
destiny  she  soon  learned  to  lament. 

Fancy  had  built  castles  of  future  enjoy 
ment;  dress,  ornament,  and  society  waved 
their  fascinating  wings  over  her  path.  Un 
acquainted  with  their  shadowy  pleasures, 
her  preparations  for  her  nuptials  were  a 
dream  of  joy,  too  soon  to  be  blasted  with 
the  realities  of  suffering  that  characterize 
the  union  not  blessed  by  Heaven.  Amid 
music  and  flowers,  amid  the  congratulations 
of  a  thousand  admiring  friends,  with  heart 
and  step  as  light  as  childhood,  Madeleine, 
like  victims,  dressed  in  flowers  and  gold,  led 
to  the  altar  of  Jupiter  in  the  Capitol  of  old, 
was  conducted  from  the  bridal  altar  to  the 
sacrifice  of  her  future  joy.  Story  oft  told 
in  the  vicissitudes  of  betrayed  innocence, 
and  in  the  fate  of  those  who  build  their 
happiness  in  the  castles  of  fancy:  like  the 
brilliancy  of  sunset  her  moment  of  pleasure 
faded;  the  novelty  and  tinsel  of  her  gilded 


1 6     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

home  lost  their  charm,  and  the  virtue  of 
her  childhood  was  wrecked  on  golden  rocks. 
She  no  longer  went  to  daily  Mass ;  her 
visits  to  the  convent  became  less  frequent, 
her  dress  lighter ;  her  conversation,  toned 
by  the  ideas  of  pride  and  self-love  reflected 
from  the  society  she  moved  in,  was  profane 
and  irreligious  ;  and  soon  the  roses  of  Chris 
tian  virtue  that  bloom  in  the  cheek  of  inno 
cent  maidenhood  became  sick  and  withered 
in  the  heated,  feverish  air  of  perverse  influ 
ences  that  tainted  her  gilded  home. 

Sixteen  years  of  sorrow  and  repentance 
had  passed  over  Madeleine,  and  found  her, 
at  the  commencement  of  our  narrative,  the 
victim  of  consumption  and  internal  an 
guish,  the  more  keen  because  the  more 
secret.  The  outward  world  believed  her 
happy ;  many  silly  maidens,  in  moments 
of  vanity,  deemed  they  could  have  gained 
heaven  if  they  were  possessed  of  Made 
leine's  wealth,  her  jewels,  her  carriages, 
her  dresses  ;  but  were  the  veils  that  shroud 
the  hypocrisy  of  human  joy  raised  for  the 
warning  of  the  uninitiated,  many  a  noble 


^  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     17 

heart  like  Madeleine's  would  show  the 
blight  of  disappointment,  with  the  thorns 
thick  and  sharp  under  the  flowers  that  are 
strewn  on  their  path.  The  sympathy  of 
manhood,  ever  flung  around  the  couch  of 
suffering  beauty,  must  hover  in  sighs  of 
regret  over  the  ill-fated  Madeleine,  whose 
discolored  eye  and  attenuated  form,  whose 
pallid  cheek,  furrowed  by  incessant  tears, 
told  the  wreck  of  a  beautiful  girl  sinking  to 
an  early  tomb. 

Her  children- — three  in  number — cause 
her  deepest  anxiety ;  they  are  the  he 
roes  of  our  tale,  and  must  at  once  be  in 
troduced  to  the  reader. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    YOUTH    TRAINED    IN    THE    WAY  HE    SHOULD 
WALK. 

To-morrow — 

'Tis  a  period  nowhere  to  be  found 
In  all  the  hoary  registers  of  time, 
Unless,  perchance,  in  the  fool's  calendar. 
Wisdom  disdains  the  word,  nor  holds  society 
With  those  who  own  it. 
Tis  Fancy's  child,  and  Folly  is  its  father  ; 
Wrought  of  such  stuff  as  dreams  are,  and  as  baseless 
As  the  fantastic  visions  of  the  evening. 

— COLTON. 

LIKE  one  of  those  rare  and  beautiful 
flowers  found  on  the  mountain-side  in  fel 
lowship  with  plants  of  inferior  beauty,  the 
heir  of  the  Gassier  family  is  a  strange  ex 
ception  of  heroic  virtue  in  the  midst  of  a 
school  of  seduction.  The  saints  were  ever 
exotics  in  their  own  circle.  Their  early 
histories  are  filled  with  sad  records  con 
firming  the  prophecy  of  our  blessed  Lord : 
18 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      19 

"  The  world  will  hate  you  because  it  loves 
not  me." 

The  student  of  hagiology  recalls  with  a 
sigh  the  touching  fate  of  a  Dympna  who 
was  the  martyred  victim  of  a  father's  im 
piety  ;  of  a  Stanislaus  pursued  by  brothers 
who  thirsted  for  his  blood;  of  a  Damian 
who  nearly  starved  under  his  stepfather's 
cruelty ;  of  martyrs  led  to  the  criminal 
stone  for  decapitation  by  inhuman  parents. 

Louis  Marie,  the  eldest  of  Cassier's  chil 
dren,  was  of  a  naturally  good  disposition. 
Through  the  solicitations  of  his  mother  and 
the  guidance  of  an  unseen  Providence  that 
watched  over  his  youth,  he  was  early  sent 
to  the  care  of  the  Jesuits.  Under  the  di 
rection  of  the  holy  and  sainted  members  of 
this  order  he  soon  gave  hope  of  a  religious 
and  virtuous  manhood.  Away  from  the 
scoffs  of  an  unbelieving  father  and  the 
weakening  seductions  of  pleasure,  he  open 
ed  his  generous  soul  to  those  salutary  im 
pressions  of  virtue  which  draw  the  soul  to 
God  and  enable  it  to  despise  the  frivolities 
of  life, 


2O     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

The  vacation,  to  other  youths  a  time  of 
pleasure,  to  Louis  was  tedious.  Though 
passionately  attached  to  his  mother,  yet 
the  impious  and  often  blasphemous  re 
marks  of  his  father  chilled  his  heart ;  the 
levity  with  which  his  sisters  ridiculed  his 
piety  was  very  disagreeable  ;  hence,  under 
the  guidance  of  a  supernatural  call  to  grace, 
he  longed  to  be  back  with  the  kind  fathers, 
where  the  quiet  joys  of  study  and  solitude 
far  outweighed  the  short-lived  excitement 
called  pleasure  by  his  worldly  sisters.  This 
religious  tendency  found  at  last  its  con 
summation  in  an  act  of  heroic  self-denial 
which  leads  us  to  scenes  of  touching  in 
terest  on  the  threshold  of  this  extraordi 
nary  historical  drama. 

At  the  time  our  narrative  commences 
Louis  was  seriously  meditating  his  flight 
from  home  and  the  world  to  bury  himself 
in  some  cloister  of  religion.  His  studies 
of  philosophy  and  history  had  convinced 
him  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul  and  the 
vanity  of  all  human  greatness.  In  his  fre 
quent  meditations  he  became  more  and 


Alvira,  tlie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      21 

more  attracted  towards  the  only  lasting, 
imperishable  Good  which  the  soul  will 
one  day  find  in  its  possession.  "  Made 
for  God!"  he  would  say  to  himself,  "my 
soul  is  borne  with  an  impetuous  impulse 
towards  him ;  like  the  dove  sent  from 
the  ark,  it  floats  over  the  vast  waters,  and 
seeks  in  vain  a  resting  place  for  its  wea 
ried  wing ;  it  must  return  again  to  the 
ark." 

The  history  of  the  great  ones  of  the 
world  produced  a  deep  impression  on 
Louis'  mind.  Emblazoned  on  the  annals 
of  the  past  he  read  the  names  of  great  men 
who  played  their  part  for  a  brief  hour  on 
the  stage  of  life.  They  grasped  for  a  mo 
ment  the  gilded  bubble  of  wealth,  of  glory, 
and  power ;  but  scarcely  had  they  raised 
the  cup  of  joy  to  their  lips  when  it  was 
dashed  from  them  by  some  stroke  of  mis 
fortune  or  death.  The  pageant  of  pride, 
the  tinsel  of  glory,  were  not  more  lasting 
than  the  fantastic  castles  that  are  built  in 
the  luminous  clouds  that  hang  around  the 
sunset, 


22     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

At  college  Louis  was  called  on  with  his 
companions  to  write  a  thesis  on  the  down 
fall  of  Marius.  Nothing  more  congenial  to 
his  convictions  or  more  encouraging  to  the 
deep  resolution  growing  in  his  heart  could 
be  selected.  The  picture  he  drew  from  the 
sad  history  of  the  conqueror  of  the  Cimbri 
was  long  remembered  among  his  school 
companions. 

Marius  was  seven  times  Consul  of  Rome  ; 
in  the  hapless  day  of  his  ascendancy  he 
threatened  to  stain  three-fourths  of  the 
empire  with  human  blood.  Blasted  in  his 
golden  dream  of  ambition,  driven  into  exile 
by  victorious  enemies,  he  was  cast  by  a 
storm  on  the  shores  of  Africa,  homeless 
and  friendless ;  in  cold  and  hunger  he 
sought  shelter  amidst  the  ruins  of  Car 
thage.  Carthage,  whose  fallen  towers  lay 
in  crumbling  masses  around  him,  was  once 
the  rival  city  of  imperial  Rome  herself, 
and,  uncler  the  able  leadership  of  Hannibal, 
threatened  to  wrest  from  the  queen  of  the 
Seven  Hills  the  rule  of  the  world.  Now 
its  streets  are  covered  with  grass;  the  wild 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      23 

scream  of  the  bird  of  solitude  and  the  moan- 
ings  of  the  night-owl  mingle  with  the  sobs 
of  a  fallen  demigod  who  once  made  the 
earth  shake  under  his  tyranny. 

Louis  read  of  the  facts  and  sayings  that 
doled  out  the  sad  tale  of  disappointment 
felt  by  those  who  seemed  to  possess  all  that 
the  wildest  ambition  could  dream  of. 

"  Yesterday  the  world  was  not  large 
enuuofh  for  him,"  said  a  sag"e  on  the  death 

o  o 

of  Alexander  the  Great;  "to-day  he  is 
content  with  six  feet  of  earth." 

"What  a  miserable  tomb  is  erected  to 
the  man  that  once  had  temples  erected  to 
his  honor !  "  sighed  a  philosopher  on  view 
ing  a  mean  monument  on  the  sea-shore 
erected  to  the  great  Pompey,  who  could 
raise  armies  by  stamping  his  feet. 

"  This  is  all  the  great  Saladin  brings  to 
the  grave,"  was  announced  by  a  courier 
who  carried  the  gr^at  ruler's  winding-sheet 
before  him  to  the  grave. 

"  Would  I  had  been  a  poor  lay  brother," 
cried  out  the  dying  Philip  II.  of  Spain, 
"washing  the  plates  in  some  obscure  mo- 


24     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

nastery,  rather  than  have  borne  the  crown 
of  Spain  !  " 

That  which  took  most  effect  on  the  mind 
of  Louis  was  the  eloquence  of  Ignatius  when 
he  met  the  young  Xavier  in  the  streets 
of  Paris.  "  And  then  ?  "  asked  by  another 
saint  of  an  ambitious  youth,  did  not  lose 
its  force  with  the  holy  yo^ith  who  found 
himself,  by  some  freak  of  blind  fortune,  heir 
to  one  of  the  millionaires  of  the  French 
capital. 

Louis,  like  St.  Ignatius,  would  often  stray 
to  a  shady  corner  of  the  garden,  and  there, 
with  eyes  fixed  on  the  blue  vault  of  heaven, 
he  would  sigh  :  "  Oh  !  quam  sordet  tellus 
dum  ccelum  aspicio  " — "  How  vile  is  earth 
whilst  I  look  on  heaven  !  " 

One  evening  Louis  had  wandered  into 
the  garden  to  give  full  vent  to  a  flood  of 
thought  that  urged  him  on  to  give  imme 
diate  answer  to  the  calls  of  grace.  God 
was  pleased  to  pour  additional  light  on  his 
soul ;  and  grace  urged  the  immediate  exe 
cution  of  his  generous  resolutions.  That 
very  morning  the  angry  temper  of  his  fa- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     25 

ther  and  his  bitter  sarcasms  against  the 
faith  Louis  loved  had  embittered  every 
thing  around  his  home.  In  tears,  but  with 
the  fearless  abandon  of  the  true  call,  he  re 
solved  to  quit  his  father's  home  that  very 
night,  and  to  break  his  purpose  to  his  mo 
ther.  She  was  the  only  one  he  really 
loved,  and  in  wounding  her  tender  heart 
was  the  hardest  part  of  the  sacrifice.  In 
filial  deference  he  prepared  his  mind  to 
break  the  matter  to  his  kind-hearted  mother 
as  gently  as  he  could.  He  would  submit  the 
resolution  to  our  Blessed  Lord  in  the  most 
Holy  Sacrament. 

Whilst  going  out  to  the  venerable  church 
of  Notre  Dame,  a  beautiful  caleche  is  at 
the  door,  and  two  young  girls,  dressed 
in  extravagant  richness,  are  hurrying  off 
to  the  fashionable  rendezvous  of  the  city; 
mildly  refusing  the  invitation  to  accompany 
them,  he  hastens  to  accomplish  the  vows 
he  has  just  taken  before  the  altar. 

Leaving  Louis  to  his  devotions,  we  pause 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  lovely  girls  who 
seek  happiness  in  another  but  less  success- 


2  6     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

ful  manner.  The  reader  must  know  those 
interesting  children  bursting  like  fragrant 
flowers  into  the  bloom  of  their  maiden 
hood  ;  they  are  the  sisters  of  Louis,  Al 
vira  and  Aloysia.  Read  those  traits  of  in 
nocence,  of  character,  of  future  promise; 
treasure  the  beautiful  picture  for  future 
reference ;  they  are  the  heroines  of  our 
story. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OUR    HEROINES. 

ALVIRA  was  tall  for  her  age;  she  had  a 
graceful,  majestic  carriage,  and,  although 
eminently  handsome,  there  was  a  some 
thing  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  and  in  the 
impression  of  her  features  that  reflected  a 
masculine  firmness.  Accomplished  and  in 
telligent,  gay  in  society,  and  affable  to  all, 
she  was  a  general  favorite  amongst  her 
school  companions.  Yet  she  was  at  times 
of  violent  temper,  and  deep  in  the  recesses 
of  her  heart  there  lurked  the  germs  of  the 
strongest  passions.  These  passions,  like 
lentils,  grew  with  time  and  crept  around 
that  heart,  until  they  concealed  the  noble 
trunk  they  clung  to  and  made  it  their  own. 
Alvira  was  often  crimsoned  with  the  blush 
of  passion  ;  a  gentle  rebuke  or  a  contra 
diction  was  sufficient  to  fire  the  hidden 

27 


28     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

mine  and  send  to  the  countenance  the  flash 
of  haughty  indignation.  Whilst  yet  in  her 
maidenhood  she  longed  for  distinction. 
Fame  leaped  before  her  ardent  imagina 
tion  as  a  gilded  bubble  she  loved  to  grasp. 
Tales  of  knight-errantry  and  chivalry  were 
always  in  her  hands,  and  bore  their  nox 
ious  fruit  in  the  wild  dreams  of  ambition 
they  fired  in  the  girl's  mind.  Often,  when 
alone  with  her  sister,  with  book  closed  in 
her  hand  and  eye  fixed  on  some  article  of 

j 

furniture,  her  thoughts  would  be  away  win 
ning  crowns  of  fame  on  battle-fields  of  her 
own  creation,  urging  on  gallant  knights  to 
deeds  of  bravery,  or  arranging  with  hum 
bled  foes  the  terms  of  peace.  She  would 
start  from  her  reverie  with  a  sigh  that  told 
of  the  imprisonment  of  a  bold,  ambitious 
spirit  that  felt  itself  destined  to  wield  a 
needle  rather  than  a  sword. 

Aloysia  is  a  sweet,  blooming  girl  of  four 
teen.  It  often  happens  that  fruits  borne 
on  the  same  stem  are  different  in  color  and 
taste  ;  so  these  two  sisters  were  different 
in  personal  appearance  and  character. 


Alvtra,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius      29 

Nature  seems  to  have  presided  in  a  spe 
cial  manner  over  the  moulding  of  Aloy- 
sia's  exquisite  frame.  The  symmetry  of 
her  person,  hand  and  foot  of  charming 
delicacy,  azure  eye  and  rosy  cheek,  gar 
landed  with  nature's  golden  tresses,  and 
the  sweet  expression  of  innocence  in  her 
features,  would  suggest  her  at  once  as  a 
model  for  one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas. 
Her  disposition,  too,  comported  with  the 
beauty  of  her  person.  She  loved  re 
tirement,  and  read  only  books  of  the 
noblest  sentiment.  The  poets  were  fami 
liar  to  her ;  she  copied  and  committed  to 
memcry  the  passages  of  exquisite  beauty. 
There  was  one  feature  in  her  character 
which  bore  a  marked  influence  on  her 
future  destinies  :  it  was  her  love  for  her 
sister. 

We  do  not  believe  at  all  times  in  the 
genuineness  of  brotherly  or  sisterly  love. 
Perhaps  familiarity  has  deadened  its  keen 
ness.  Like  the  appreciation  of  the  sunlight 
which  rushes  with  thrilling  force  on  the 
victim  of  blindness,  separation  or  misfor- 


30     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

tune  may  rouse  the  dormant  affection  and 
prove  its  nobility  and  its  power ;  but  in  our 
experience  manifest  fraternal  charity  is  one 
of  those  things  even  the  wise  man  knew  to 
be  rare  under  the  sun.  Where  we  have 
been  privileged  to  look  in  behind  the  veil 
of  the  family  circle,  we  are  more  convinced 
than  ever  that  fraternal  affection  and  all 
the  boasted  nobility  of  sisterly  love  dwin 
dle  down  to  a  series  of  petty  quarrels  and 
jealousies  as  painful  as  they  are  unchris 
tian  and  unbecoming.  The  reserve,  or 
rather  the  hypocrisy  of  politeness,  put  on 
before  strangers,  is  no  criterion  of  the  in 
ward  domestic  life.  Some  one  has  said  of 
ladies, "  A  point  yielded  or  a  pardon  begged 
in  public  means  so  many  hair-pullings  be 
hind  the  scenes."  But  this  is  too  sweep 
ing  ;  there  are  noble,  glorious  exceptions 
in  families  where  religion  reigns,  where 
fraternal  charity  finds  a  congenial  soil ;  for 
it  blooms  in  the  fragrance  of  the  other  vir 
tues,  and  is  the  firsticharacteristic  of  a  pious 
family.  The  world  around  are  told  to  loolf 
for  this  as  a  sign  by  which  they  are  to  re- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesiivius.      31 

cognize  the  disciples  of  Him  who  loved  so 
much. 

Aloysia,  in  a  true,  genuine  feeling  of 
love,  was  bound  in  adamantine  chains  to 
her  sister*  Time  and  fortune,  that  shatter 
all  human  institutions  and  prove  human 
feelings,  consolidated  the  union  of  their 
hearts  and  their  destinies.  A  stranger  or 
stronger  proof  of  the  influence  of  sisterly 
affection  could  not  be  adduced  ;  it  drag 
ged  the  beautiful,  blushing  Aloysia  from  the 
sphere  of  girlhood,  to  follow  in  the  track  of 
hypocrisy  and  of  bloodshed  so  desperately 
trodden  by  her  braver  sister. 

Our  tale  opens  when  the  two  girls  had 
finished  their  education  and  were  living  in 
luxury  and  enjoyment.  The  days  and  hours 
passed  merrily  by.  They  would  read  in 
the  shade,  play  and  sing  on  the  harp, 
would  paint  or  work  at  wool,  and  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  burning  sun  had  left 
the  world  to  the  shade  of  evening,  they 
would  drive  out  in  a  magnificent  attelage 
to  the  fashionable  rendezvous  of  Paris. 

Dream  too  bright  to  last  !     On  the  ho- 


32      Ahira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

rizon  is  gathering  the  dark  cloud  that  will 
dim  the  sunlight  of  their  bliss,  and  cause 
them,  in  the  dark  and  trving  hour  of  trou 
ble,  to  look  back  with  the  sigh  of  regret 
over  the  brilliant  hours  of  youthful  enjoy 
ment. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    SECRET    REVEALED. 

[  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am  ; 
And  in    the  fields  all  round  I  hear   the  bleating  of 

the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,    rose    the  morning  of  the 

year  ! 
To   die   before   the    snow-drop   came,   and    now  the 

violet's  here. 

Oh  !  sweet  is  the  new  violet  that  comes  beneath  the 

skies 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that 

cannot  rise  ; 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers 

that  blow ; 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long 

to  go. 

—  Tennyson. 

IT  was   a    bright,    cheerful   morning    in 

.June.     The  sinking,  feeble  Madeleine  had 

requested  her    domestics    to  carry   her   to 

the    conservatory,    that    she    might    gaze 

again    on    the    flowers   that  were  soon    to 

33 


34     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

blossom  on  her  grave.  Death  had  lin 
gered  in  his  approach.  The  gay,  the  am 
bitious,  and  healthy  he  had  taken  all  too 
soon ;  but  for  Madeleine,  who  longed  to 
go,  he  tarried.  Her  little  violets  had  al 
ready  given  their  first  fragrant  kiss  to 
breezes  that  passed  with  no  mournful 
cadence  through  the  cypresses  of  the 
lonely  cemetery.  Crumbling  in  her  hand 
a  faded  rose,  she  breathed  the  thought  so 
beautifully  versified  in  after-times  by  the 
immortal  bard  of  Erin  : 

So  soon  may  I  follow 

When  friendships  decay, 
Anfl  ^rom  love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away. 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh  !  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 

The  sentiment  was  prophetic :  other 
flowers  of  affection  will  be  withered  by  the 
vicissitudes  of  destiny  ;  fond  ones  will  flee, 
leaving  the  world  a  wilderness  for  her  last 
hours  ! 

It  often  happens  in  the  course  of  life  that 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     35 

we  are  driven  by  some  inexplicable  fatality 
to  suffer  those  very  afflictions  we  dread  the 
most.  We  are  told  of  persons  who  trem 
bled  for  a  lifetime  at  the  horrid  anticipa 
tion  of  being  one  day  mad  ;  it  was  the  sha 
dow  of  the  judgment  that  was  -creeping  on 
them,  which  cast  them  finally  amongst  the 
victims  of  the  lunatic  asylum.  The  suicide 
is  the  prophet  of  his  own  doom  ;  the  pre 
sentiment  of  death  by  drowning  has  but 
too  often  ended  in  a  watery  grave.  Per 
haps  where  the  fibres  of  the  heart  are 
weakest,  the  strain  brought  on  them  by 
excited  fancy  snaps  them  in  the  misfor 
tune  that  is  dreaded ;  or  perhaps  some 
unseen  spirit,  charged  with  the  decree  of 
our  individual  sorrow,  casts  the  dark  sha 
dow  of  his  wing  over  our  thoughts,  and 
communicates  the  gloomy  foreboding  of  a 
presentiment.  The  dying  mother  had  one 
of  these  heart-tearing  presentiments,  so  fre 
quent  and  so  mysterious  in  the  history  of 
human  suffering. 

She  was  guilty  of  a  species  of  maternal 
idolatry  :  -centred  in  her  child  Louis  Marie, 


36  A'vin,  the   Heroine  of  Vesuvius 

as  rays  gathered  up  into  a  focus,  were  a.J 
her  hopes,  her  aspirations,  her  ideas  ot  the 
future.  If  she  could  be  assured  she  would 
live  to  see  her  son  leading  the  armies  ot 
the  empire,  ruling  in  the  cabinets  of  stare, 
or  worshipped  in  the  circles  of  t-Jip  wp-a-l 
and  learned,  Heaven  itself  could  not  bnUd 
up  a  greater  joy  in  the  limited  horizon  oi 
her  hopes  ;  but  an  awful  conviction  crept 
over  her  that  some  misfortune  would  tear 
from  her  the  object  of  her  love  like  the 
fruit  torn  from  the  stem,  like  the  young 
branch  from  the  oak.  In  dreams  she  saw 
him  struggling  in  the  torrent  which  bore 
him  away,  or  dragged  to  the  hills  at  the 
feet  of  a  wild  horse.  More  than  once  she 
saw  him  on  boa/d  a  Government  vessel, 
sailing  with  the  hapless  children  of  guilt  to 
the  convict  settlements  of  southern  seas 
— not  as  a  felon,  but  an  angel  of  light 
amongst  the  condemned. 

Whilst  Madeleine  was  sitting  in  the  con 
servatory,  musing  over  the  gloomy  antici 
pations  her  dreams  had  cast  over  her 
thoughts,  Louis  Marie  came  towards  her. 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      37 

A  beam  of  joy  lit  up  her  hectic  cheek ; 
she  impressed  a  kiss  on  the  forehead  of 
her  darling  son,  and  playfully  reproved 
him  for  the  dreams  that  gave  her  so 
much  trouble. 

"  Mother,"  we  fancy  we  hear  Louis  re 
ply,  "  you  would  not  surely  give  much  cre 
dence  to  the  imaginary  evils  of  a  dream. 
You  know  nothing  can  happen  to  us  ex 
cept  by  the  arrangement  of  God  ;  not  even 
a  hair  can  fall  to  the  ground  without  his 
permission.  I  remember  in  college  I  was 
very  much  delighted  with  a  thesis  one  of 
the  fathers  gave  us  on  the  Providence  of 
God  ;  it  was  so  strange  and  so  consoling 
to  think  that  great  Being  who  created  so 
many  millions  of  worlds,  and  keeps  them 
flying  around  him  with  immense  velocity, 
could  occupy  himself  with  us  human  beings, 
who  are  no  more  than  insects  moving  on 
this  world,  which  is  but  a  speck  in  the  im 
mensity  of  the  universe.  But  I  know  how 
it  is — our  souls  are  immortal,  and  hence 
we  must  soar  higher  than  the  countless 
worlds,  were  they  ten  times  as  great.  Our 


3  8     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

blessed  Lord,  by  coming  amongst  us  and 
dying  to  save  those  souls,  showed  us  that 
he  thought  more  of  us  than  of  the  bird  of 
the  air  or  the  lily  of  the  field,  clothed  in 
such  charming  magnificence.  Is  it  unrea 
sonable  that,  since  he  has  given  to  each 
star  a  course,  to  each  lily  and  each  bird  a 
time  and  a  clime,  he  s-hould  also  determine 
for  us  the  course  we  should  follow  for  his 
greater  glory?  And  what,  mother,  if  some 
unseen,  invisible  destiny  should  really  call 
me  away  ;  if  it  were  for  the  glory  of  God 
and  the  salvation  of  souls,  would  you  not 
rejoice  ?" 

Madeleine  paused  for  a  moment  before 
venturing  a  reply.  She  trembled  ;  a  strug 
gle  between  affection  and  duty  passed  with 
in.  Pleased  with  the  rich  flow  of  virtuous 
sentiment  that  made  her  still  more  proud  of 
her  child,  she  had  caught  the  end  of  a  gol 
den  thread  and  wished  to  unravel  it  further, 
but  feared  it  would  be  snapped  by  some 
unpleasant  discovery.  Full  of  excitement, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  with  a  penetrating,  en 
quiring  gaze  upon  Louis,  she  answered : 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      39 

"Louis,  I  should  be  false  to  the  lessons 
I  have  endeavored  to  teach  you  in  these 
last  fleeting  hours  of  my  ill-spent  life, 
were  I  not  to  rejoice  in  any  destiny  that 
would  wrap  up  your  future  career  in  the 
glory  of  God;  but  I  fear  the  enthusiasm 
of  your  young  heart  will  misguide  you. 
I  know,  from  the  serious  tone  of  your 
voice  and  look  in  asking  that  question, 
you  have  been  but  feeling  your  way  to 
make  some  crushing  disclosure.  I  saw 
you  crying  in  the  garden  this  afternoon, 
and  for  some  time  past  I  have  noticed  a 
cloud  of  anxiety  hanging  over  you.  I  had 
determined  the  first  moment  we  were  alone 
to  know  the  cause  of  this  trouble ;  and  I 
now  conjure  you,  by  the  affection  and  duty 
which  you  owe  me  as  your  mother,  to  let 
me  share  in  your  anxieties  and  in  your 
councils." 

Louis  had  really  come  to  broach  the  ter 
rible  secret  to  his  mother,  but  he  had  not 
yet  courage ;  he  struggled  manfully  to  sup 
press  internal  emotions  that  might  at  any 
moment,  like  swollen  rivers,  overflow  and 


4O     A  fair  a*  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

betray  their  existence  in  a  flood  of  tears 
Fearing  to  venture  suddenly  on  the  sub- 
ject  that  was  fullest  in  his  heart,  he  partly 
evaded  his  mother's  energetic  appeal,  and 
made  such  a  reply  as  would  elicit  from  her 
quick  perception  the  declaration  that  trem 
bled  on  his  lips. 

"If  war  were  declared  with  our  frontier 
foes,  and  our  beloved  King  commanded  the 
youth  of  the  country  to  gird  on  the  sword 
for  our  national  defence,  you,  mother,  would 
help  me  to  buckle  on  mine?" 

"  Yes,  Louis,  I  would  give  you  proudly 
to  the  cause  of  France,"  continued  Made 
leine,  feigning  a  patriotism  she  scarcely 
felt.  "  But,  thanks  be  to  God,  I  am  not 
called  on  now  to  claim  an  honor  that  is  at 
best  a  sacrifice  and  a  calamity." 

"  But,  mother,  the  war  is  declared,  and  I 
am  to  be  a  soldier  in  a  sacred  cause." 

"  How  !  "  cried  Madeleine  excitedly. 
"  The  followers  of  the  Black  Prince  again 
attacking  us  ?  The  Turks  seeking  revenge 
for  the  defeat  of  Lepanto  ?  or  Christian 
Spain  still  intoxicated  with  its  own  dream 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     41 

of  ambition  ?  Whence  come  the  sound  of 
arms,  Louis,  to  fire  thy  young  ambition  ? 
If  I  judge  rightly,  thy  disposition  leads 
thee  more  to  the  cloister  thai)  to  the  bat 
tle-field." 

"  Tis  so,"  replied  Louis,  who  had  adroit 
ly  brought  the  conversation  to  the  subject 
that  occupied  his  thoughts,  and  to  the  an 
nouncement  that  would  ring  with  such 
thrill  on  his  mother's  ears.  "  And  I  am 
going  to  join  a  religious  community  im 
mediately,  to  become  a  soldier  in  the  great 
war  of  fight  against  wrong — of  this  world 
against  the  next.  To  this  war  the  trum 
pet-calls  of  grace  have  summoned  me,  and 
I  come  to  ask  the  mother  who  would  give 
me  to  the  cause  of  my  country  to  do  the 
same  for  Almighty  God." 

A  step  was  heard  outside.  Louis  glided 
into  the  garden,  and  Madeleine  was  again 
found  by  her  husband  buried  in  tears. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TEARS  ON  EARTH, JOY  IN  HEAVEN. 

MADELEINE,  with  all  the  keenness  of  her 
maternal    heart,   had    caught   the   drift   ot 

O 

Louis'  mind,  and  felt  the  disclosure  before 
it  was  made.  A  rough,  rude  remark  from 
Gassier,  and  he  left  her  to  the  silence  and 
reflection  she  then  vehemently  desired.  Re 
flection,  in  bringing  before  her  a  beautiful 
but  sad  picture,  crumbled  before  her  men 
tal  vision  the  castles  that  her  affection  and 
her  hopes  had  built  on  the  shadowy  basis 
of  Louis'  future  temporal  glory.  She  felt, 
however,  from  the  inspiration  of  faith  a 
feeling  of  spiritual  joy  that  he  was  called 
to  the  higher  destiny  of  a  favorite  of  Hea 
ven.  Had  the  fire  of  divine  love  glowed 
more  fervently  in  her  heart,  she  would  feel 
the  joy  of  ecstasy,  such  as  consoled  the 
death-bed  of  the  mothers  of  the  saints 

42 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     43 

when  the  revelation  of  the  sanctity  of  their 
children  was  the  last  crown  of  earthly  joy. 
Anticipating  the  privilege  the  fond  mater 
nal  heart  would  fain  claim  even  in  the 
kingdom  free  from  all  care,  Madeleine  of 
ten  found  herself  contemplating  her  son 
fighting  the  brave  fight,  winning  crown 
upon  crown,  and  virtue  flinging  around 
him  a  shield  mor^  impenetrable  than  the 
fabulous  /£gis  of  pagan  mythology. 

In  the  flippant  boastings  of  Christian 
mothers  there  are  many  who  pretend  they 
have  the  fire  of  faith  and  divine  love  like 
the  brave  Machabean  woman  ;  but  when  the 
sore  hour  of  real  separation  comes,  the  soft, 
loving  heart  bends  and  weeps.  Nature, 
corrupt  nature,  resists  the  arrangements  of 
God,  and  nature  triumphs  in  the  maternal 
tie.  The  spirit  of  Madeleine  had  made 
the  sacrifice  of  her  son,  but  the  rude  hand 
of  nature  swept  the  fibres  of  her  heart  and 
tore  them  asunder. 

Night  has  gathered  around  the  house  of 
Gassier.  Sleep  has  brought  the  silence  of 
the  tomb  on  the  inmates.  One  alone  is 


44     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

awake;  gentle  sobs  tell  of  a  heart  strug 
gling  with  its  own  desires,  but  a  faint  ray 
of  moonlight  shows  him  seeking  strength 
on  his  knees  before  a  crucifix. 

Guide  him,  ye  angels,  in  the  sublime  des 
tiny  to  which  Heaven  calls  !  Treasure  up 
those  tears  of  affection  ;  they  are  pearls  for 
a  crown  in  eternity  !  A  long,  farewell  look 
at  the  old  homestead,  and  Louis  has  fled. 

In  the  night,  when  all  were  asleep,  he 
stole  down-stairs  and  into  the  silent  street. 
The  moon  brio-hlened  the  tears  of  his  fare- 

O 

well ;  only  his  guardian  angel  saw,  to  regis 
ter  for  his  eternal  crown,  the  inward  strug 
gle  in  which  he  had  trampled  on  every  tie 
of  affection  and  pleasure.  Disappearing  in 
the  narrow  streets,  he  disappears  also  from 
the  pages  of  our  narrative  until,  in  the  ex 
traordinary  vicissitudes  of  time,  he  makes 
his  appearance  again  in  a  scene  both  touch 
ing  and  edifying. 

The  morning  dawn  revealed  the  broken 
circle,  the  vacant  chair  in  the  family.  Gas 
sier  was  confused.  Whilst  others  wept  he 
moved  about  in  deep  thought.  Stoic  in 


Alvirn*  ha  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      45 

his  feelings  avzd  hardened  in  sympathies,  he 
still  felt  all  the  tender  anxieties  of  an  affec 
tionate  parent.  There  are  moments  in  the 
career  of  even  the  greatest  sinners  when 
sleeping  conscience  is  roused  to  remorse. 
The  shock  the  old  man  received  in  the  loss 
of  his  amiable  child  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
unhappy  state  of  his  own  soul  ;  every  act 
of  ridicule  he  cast  on  the  religious  tenden 
cies  of  Louis  became  arrows  of  memory  to 
sting  him  with  regret. 

But  these  were  transient  moments  of  a 
better  light.  As  meteors,  darting  across 
the  sky,  illumine  for  a  few  seconds  the  dark 
vault  of  heaven,  and  in  the  sudden  exit  of 
their  brilliant  flash  seem  to  leave  greater 
darkness  in  the  night,  thus  the  impulses  of 
grace  shot  across  the  soul  of  Gassier;  he 
struggled  in  the  grasp  of  an  unseen  power, 
but  suddenly  lapsed  into  the  awful  callous 
ness  which  characterizes  the  relapses  of  con 
firmed  guilt ;  he  pretended  to  smile  at  his 
weakness,  and  found  a  sorry  relief  in  cursing 
and  scoffing  at  everything  the  virtuous  love. 

Yet  he  offered  immense  rewards  for  in- 


46      Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

formation  that  would  bring  him  in  presence 
of  the  boy  whose  form  he  loved,  but  whose 
virtue  he  despised.  Like  the  pagan  perse 
cutors  of  old,  he  vainly  hoped,  by  fear  or  the 
tinsel  of  gold,  to  win  back  to  the  world  and 
sin  the  magnanimous  youth  who  had  bro 
ken  through  the  stronger  argument  of  a  mo- 

o  o  o 

trier's  tears.  Messengers  were  despatched 
in  every  direction  ;  the  police  scoured  the 
roads  for  miles  outside  the  city ;  friends 
and  acquaintances  were  warned  not  to  har 
bor  the  truant. 

A  week  passed,  and  no  cheerful  tidings 
came  to  lessen  the  orloom  of  bereavement. 

o 

That  Providence  which  made  Louis  a  ves 
sel  of  election  had  covered  him  with  its  pro 
tecting  shield,  and  bore  him  like  a  vessel 
under  propitious  winds  to  the  port  of  his 
destination. 

In  all  the  soft  tenderness  of  girlhood 
the  two  sisters  lamented  their  absconding 
brother.  They,  too,  had  been  unkind  to 
him.  The  sweet,  patient  smile  that  ever 
met  their  taunts,  the  mild  reproof  when 
they  concealed  his  beads  or  prayer-book, 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     47 

3ZS  willingness  to  oblige  on  all  occasions, 
were  remembered  with  tears.  When  sit 
ting  by  the  mother's  bed,  the  conversation 
invariably  turned  on  Louis.  In  cruel  fancy 
they  deepened  the  real  sorrow  of  separation 
by  casting  imaginary  misfortunes  on  the 
track  of  the  absent  boy.  One  would  sigh 
with  the  ominous  perhaps. 

"  Poor  Louis  is  now  hungry  !" 

"  Perhaps  he  is  now  lying  sick  and  foot 
sore  on  the  side  of  some  highway,  without 
a  friend,  without  money." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  fallen  in  with  robbers 
and  is  stripped  of  the  few  articles  of  dress 
he  took  with  him.  ' 

"  Perhaps  he  is  now  sorry  for  leaving 
us,"  sighed  the  tender-hearted  Aloysia, 
"and  would  give  the  world  to  kiss  again 
his  poor  sick  mamma  !  " 

But  futile  tears  flowed  with  each  sur 
mise.  No  welcome  messenger  returned 
to  bring  tidings  of  the  missing  youth. 

'Tis  thus  we  love  virtue  ;  we  sigh  over 
departed  worth  when  its  brHliancy  has 
faded  from  our  sight. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
MADELEINE'S  HAPPY  DEATH. 

TROUBLES,  like  migratory  birds,  never 
travel  alone.  As  heavier  billows  cling 
together  and  roll  in  rapid  succession  and 
in  thundering  force  on  the  rock-built  bar 
riers  of  nature,  so  the  waves  of  trial  and 
misfortune  break  on  frail  humanity  in 
crushing  proximity.  The  second  and  third 
billows  of  misfortune  are  fast  undulating  on 
the  tide  of  time,  and  will  sweep  over  the 
home  of  Gassier,  leaving  it  a  miserable 
wreck,  a  theme  for  the  sympathy  and  the 
moral  of  a  historian's  pen. 

The  weakened,  consumptive  frame  of 
Madeleine  did  not  long  survive  the  blow 
that  Louis  had  prepared  for  her — not,  in 
deed,  in  the  sense  of  a  guilty  and  blood 
stained  hand,  but  with  the  merit  of  an 
Abraham  who,  at  the  command  of  Hea- 


Aivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     49 

ven,  prepared  a  funeral  pyre  for  his  child. 
Madeleine  could  scarcely  weep  ;  the  grief 
of  nature  was  calmed  by  the  impulses  of 
grace,  and  she  felt  in  her  heart  a  holy  joy 
in  the  sublime  destinies  of  her  son.  Could 
we,  in  the  face  of  the  holy  teachings  of 
the  Church,  institute  a  comparison  between 
the  mother  of  the  soldier  and  the  mother 
of  the  priest  ?  Amidst  sighs  that  were  but 
the  convulsive  throes  of  a  heart's  emotion, 
she  breathed  often  and  aloud  the  Deo 
gratias  of  the  faithful  soul. 

But  like  certain  forces  in  nature  that  re 
quire  but  the  slightest  shock  to  give  them 
irresistible  power,  by  which  they  burst 
through  their  confining  cells  and  set  them- 

o  <_> 

selves  free,  the  immortal  spirit  of  Made 
leine  burst  its  prison  cell  and  soared  to  its 
home  beyond  the  skies. 

We  need  not  tarry  over  the  painful, 
touching  scene  oft-told,  and  felt  sooner  or 

O 

later  in  every  home.  Like  snow  disap 
pearing  under  the  sunshine,  the  lite  of 
Madeleine  was  fast  melting  away.  At 
length,  as  if  she  knew  when  the  absorb- 


50     Alvira,  the  Heroine  oj  Vesuvius. 

ing  heat  would  melt  the  last  crystal 
of  the  vital  principle,  she  summoned  her 
family  around  her  to  wish  them  that  last 
thrilling  farewell  which  is  never  erased 
from  the  tablet  of  memory.  In  the  fare 
well  of  the  emigrant,  torn  by  cruel  fate 
from  country  and  friends,  hope  smiles  in  his 
tears ;  the  fortune  that  drives  away  can 
bring  back  ;  but  the  farewell  of  death 
leaves  no  fissure  in  its  cloud  for  the  gleam 
of  hope — it  is  final,  terrible,  and,  on  this 
side  the  grave,  irrevocable. 

With  faltering  voice  she  doled  out  the 
last  terrible  warning  that  speaks  so  elo 
quently  from  the  bed  of  death. 

Whilst  the  aged  priest  recited  the  Lita 
nies  she  raised  her  last,  dying  look  towards 
heaven,  and  whispered  loud  enough  to  be 
heard,  "O  Mary!  pray  for  my  children." 

Madeleine  was  no  more.  Her  last  sigh 
was  a  prayer  that  went  like  lightning  to 
the  throne  of  God  from  a  repentant,  recon 
ciled  spirit ;  at  the  same  moment  her  libe 
rated  soul  had  travelled  the  vast  gulf  be 
tween  time  and  eternity,  arnd  there,  in  the 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      5 1 

books  held  by  the  guardian  angels  of  her 
children,  she  saw  registered  the  answer  to 
her  prayer. 

Madeleine  was  laid  in  a  marble  tomb 
amongst  the  first  occupants  of  Pere  la 
Chaise.  A  small  but  artistic  monument, 
still  extant,  and  not  far  from  the  famous 
tomb  of  Abelard  and  Eloise,  would  point 
out  to  the  curious  or  interested  where 
sleeps  among  the  great  of  the  past  the 
much-loved  Madeleine  Gassier. 

"  God's  peace  be  with  her  !"  they  did  say, 

And  laughed  with  their  next  breath. 
O  busy  world  !  how  poor  is  thy  display 
Of  sympathy  with  death. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ONE    ABYSS    INVOKES    ANOTHER. 

IN  times  gone  by,  in  the  so-called  dark 
ness  of  the  Middle  Aofes,  there  were  cer- 

o 

tain  countries  in  Europe  that  believed  in 
the  existence  of  a  fiend  or  ghoul  that  in 
habited  lonely  places  and  unfrequented 
woods,  and  tore  to  pieces  the  imprudent 
traveller  that  ventured  on  its  path.  This 
fiend  of  the  desert  and  lonely  wood  was  at 
best  but  a  fabrication  of  an  excited  fancy  ; 
it  has  long  since  passed  away  with  the 
myths  of  the  past,  and  exists  only  in  the 
nursery  rhymes  of  our  literature.  Yet  in 
its  place  a  malignant  spirit  of  evil  revels 
in  the  ruin  of  the  human  race  ;  it  delights 
in  the  crowd ;  it  loves  the  gaslight,  the 
lascivious  song  and  wanton  dance;  it  pre 
sides  over  our  convivial  banquets  with 

brow  crowned  with  ivy  and  faded  roses  ; 
53 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      53 

whilst  all  the  unholy  delights  of  earth 
sacrifice  to  it,  in  return  it  scatters  amongst 
its  adorers  all  the  ills  and  sorrows  that  flow 
from  the  curse  of  Eden,  making  a  libation  to 
the  infernal  gods  of  the  honor,  the  fortune, 
and  the  lives  of  men.  The  ghoul  or  fiend 
of  modern  society  is  the  demon  of  alcohol. 

History  records  a  remarkable  victim  in 
the  ill-fated  Gassier.  When  grief  falls  on 
the  irreligious  soul,  it  seeks  relief  in  crime. 
The  shadow  of  death  that  fell  on  his  fami 
ly  circle,  and  the  flight  of  his  son  in  dar 
ing  forgetfulness  of  his  parental  authority, 
which  he  had  overrated,  broke  the  last  link 
of  Christian  forbearance  in  his  unbelieving 
heart ;  when  wearied  of  blaspheming  the 
providence  of  God,  he  quaffed  the  fatal  cup 
which  hell  gives  as  a  balm  to  its  sorrow- 
stricken  votaries. 

A  cloud  of  oblivion  must  hide  from  the 
tender  gaze  of  the  young  and  innocent  the 
harrowing  scenes  that  brought  misery  on 
his  home,  ruin  on  his  financial  condition, 
and  a  deeper  hue  to  the  moral  depravity 
of  his  blighted  character, 


54     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

One  look  of  sympathy  at  our  young 
heroines,  and  we  will  pass  on  to  the  thrill 
ing  course  of  events. 

Like  beautiful  yachts  on  a  stormy  lake, 
without  pilot,  without  hands  to  steady  the 
white  sail  to  catch  the  favorable  wind,  Al- 
vira  and  Aloysia  were  tossed  on  a  sea  of 
trial  which  cast  a  baneful  shadow  over 
their  future  destinies.  Tears  had  cast  the 
halo  of  their  own  peculiar  beauty  over  their 
delicate  features ;  mourning  and  sombre 
costume  wrapt  around  them  the  gravity  of 
sorrow  ;  and  the  adulation  of  a  universal 
sympathy,  pretended  or  real,  supplied  the 
attentions  that  flattered  and  pleased  when 
they  led  the  giddy  world  of  fashion.  The 
silence  of  grief  hung  around  the  magnifi 
cent  saloons,  once  so  gay  ;  the  wardrobe 
that  contained  the  costly  apparel,  the  cas 
ket  that  treasured  the  pearls  o'  Ceylon 
and  gems  of  Golconda,  were  all  closed  and 
neglected.  The  treatment  of  their  father 
was  an  agony  of  domestic  trouble,  in 
which  they  were  tried  as  in  a  furnace. 

A  few  weeks,  however,   and  the  darkest 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     55 

hour  of  the  storm  had  passed.  Moments 
of  relaxation  brought  beams  of  sunlight 
through  the  dissolving  clouds  ;  drives, 
walks,  and  even  visits  were  gradually 
resumed. 

A  fit  of  illness  brought  Gassier  to  his 
senses.  A  forced  abstinence  for  a  few 
weeks  saved  him  from  the  last  and  most 
terrible  lot  of  confirmed  drunkenness;  but 
ruin  was  written  with  his  own  hand  on  the 
firm  that  made  him  wealthy.  Quick- foot 
ed  rumor,  that  hates  the  well-being  of  man, 
was  abroad  at  its  deadly  work;  public  con 
fidence  in  the  bank  began  to  wane,  and 
each  depositor  lent  the  weight  of  his  indi 
vidual  interest  to  accelerate  the  financial 
crash.  The  stone  set  in  motion  down  the 
mountain  assumes  a  force  that  no  power 
could  stay  ;  on  it  will  go  until  it  rests  in 
the  plain.  From  the  eminence  of  his 
boasted  wealth  the  usurer  found  his  turn 
come  to  whirl  around  on  the  wheel  of  for 
tune  and  yield  to  some  other  mortal,  who  is 
the  toy  of  fortune,  to  grasp  for  a  moment 
the  golden  key  of  avarice  a.nd  ambiuon. 


56     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

At  length  the  crash  has  come.  One  of 
the  largest  depositors  sends  notice  that 
in  a  week  he  will  withdraw  his  funds. 

Gassier  saw  ruin  staring  him  in  the  face  ; 
when  this  sum  was  paid  he  would  be  a  pau 
per.  He  would  not  dig,  and  in  the  pride  of 
his  heart  he  would  not  beg.  Conscience, 
long  seared  in  the  path  of  impiety,  has  no 
voice  to  warn,  no  staff  to  strike.  Gassier, 
wise  in  his  generation  of  dishonesty,  knows 
what  he  will  do,  and  nerves  himself  for  a 
desperate  undertaking  which  leads  us  deep 
er  and  deeper  into  the  history  of  crime,  into 
the  abysses  of  iniquity  which  invoke  each 
other. 

In  a  few  days  Paris  is  startled.  Gassier 
has  fled,  and  robbed  his  creditors  of  a  mil 
lion  francs. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ON    THE    TRAIL. 

EVENING  had  fallen  over  the  city,  and 
the  busy  turmoil  of  the  streets  had  ceased ; 
the  laborer  had  repaired  to  his  family, 
the  wealthy  had  gone  to  their  suburban 
villas,  and  licentious  youth  had  sought 
the  amusements  over  which  darkness 
draws  its  veil.  Politicians,  newsmon 
gers,  and  travellers  made  the  cafe  sa 
lons  ring  with  their  animated  discus 
sions.  The  policy  of  the  Prime  Minister, 
the  probabilities  of  war,  the  royal  sports 
of  Versailles,  and  daring  deeds  of  crime 
gathered  from  the  police  reports  were  in- 
exhaustive  topics  for  debate. 

In  one  of  the  popular  cafes  there  was 
a  small  gathering  of  men  threatening  ven 
geance  on  the  delinquent  Gassier ;  they 
had  more  or  less  suffered  from  his  robbery, 


58      Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

and  they  listened  with  avidity  to  every  ru 
mor  that  might  lead  to  the  probability  of 
his  capture.  Amongst  them  there  was  an 
aged  man  of  grayish  beard,  who  was  parti 
cularly  loud  and  zealous  in  his  condemna 
tion  of  the  dishonest  banker.  He  railed 
against  the  Government,  which,  he  said, 
was  priest-ridden  under  the  whip  of  Maza- 
rin ;  the  imbecility  of  the  police ;  and  the 
apathy  of  the  citizens,  who  bore  so  peace 
ably  such  glaring  acts  of  injustice  and  im 
position.  He  poured  out  a  volume  of 
calumny  against  the  priesthood,  and  blas 
phemed  so  as  to  cast  a  chill  of  terror 
through  his  less  impious  hearers. 

He  was  suddenly  stopped  in  his  ha 
rangue  by  the  entrance  of  a  stranger  in 
the  coffee-room.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man, 
wrapped  in  an  over- cloak;  he  paced  majes 
tically  across  the  room,  and  took  a  seat 
opposite  the  old  man,  who  had  suddenly 
become  silent  and  was  busily  occupied 
reading  the  criminal  bulletin.  Over  the 
edges  of  his  paper  the  old  man  took  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  stranger ;  their  eyes 


Alvira,  f/ie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      59 

met ;  a  recognition  followed,  but  as  silent 
and  as  deep  as  with  the  criminal  and  the 
Masonic  judge. 

The  old  man  rang  the  bell,  and  called  for 
writing  materials.  He  hastily  scribbled  a 
few  words,  closed,  sealed  the  letter,  then 
bade  the  waiter  take  it  to  his  eldest  son, 
who  had  retired  to  his  apartments.  He 
immediately  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 

"Who  is  that  old  man?"  asked  the  tall 
stranger,  rising  and  advancing  excitedly 
towards  the  waiter. 

"That's  Senor  Pereira  from  Cadiz,"  re 
torted  the  waiter. 

"Serior  Pereira  from  Cadiz!"  repeated 
the  stranger.  "  No,"  he  continued  em 
phatically ;  "he  is  Serior  Gassier  from 
Paris." 

"  Cassier ! "  was  muttered  by  the  as 
tounded  debaters  who  had  listened  to  the 
vituperative  philippics  of  the  Portuguese 
merchant. 

"Cassier!"  was  echoed  from  the  furthest 
end  of  the  saloon,  where  some  quiet  and 
peaceful  citizens  were  sipping  their  coffee 


60     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

and  rum  apart  from  the  stormy  politics  of 
the  centre-table. 

Whilst  an  animated  conversation  was 
carried  on  two  young  lads  came  running 
down-stairs  and  rushed  into  the  street 
through  the  front  door. 

"Who  are  those  young  men?"  asked 
again  the  stranger  of  the  waiter. 

"They  are  the  sons  of  Senor  Pereira," 
was  the  answer. 

"The  sons  of  Pereira!  They  are  the 
daughters  of  Gassier !  "  said  the  stranger 
in  a  loud  voice,  who  had  now  become  the 
hero  of  the  room  and  had  penetrated  a 
deep  and  clever  plot. 

He  ran  to  the  street,  but  the  fugitives 
had  disappeared  in  the  darkness ;  their 
gentle  tread  was  not  heard  on  the  pave 
ment,  and  no  observer  was  near  to  indicate 
the  course  they  had  taken.  The  whole 
scheme  of  Cassier's  bold  disguise  flashed 
with  unerring  conviction  on  the  stranger's 
mind — the  voice,  the  eye,  the  gait  were 
Cassier's.  He  was  familiar  with  the  family, 
and  in  the  hurried  glance  he  got  of  the 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     61 

youths  rushing  by  the  saloon  door  he 
thought  he  recognized  the  contour  of 
Alvira's  beautiful  face.  He  hastened  .to 
communicate  his  startling  discovery  to  the 
Superintendent  of  the  Police,  and  the  city 
was  once  more  in  a  state  of  excitement. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    FLIGHT. 

THE  sensation  caused  by  the  startling 
failure  and  embezzlement  of  the  wealthy 
banker  had  scarcely  subsided  when  the 
city  rang  with  the  news  of  his  clever  dis 
guise  and  daring  escape.  Angry  Justice, 
foiled  in  her  revenge,  lashed  herself  to 
rage,  and  moaned  her  defeat  like  the  for 
est  queen  robbed  of  her  young.  The 
Government  feared  the  popular  cry,  and 
proved  its  zeal  by  offering  immense  re 
wards  for  the  arrest  of  the  delinquent 
banker.  The  country  around  the  city  was 
guarded,  every  suspicious  vehicle  exam 
ined,  and  strangers  ran  the  risk  of  be 
ing  mobbed  before  they  could  prove  their 
identity.  False  rumors  now  and  then  ran 
through  the  city,  raising  and  quelling  the 
passions  like  a  tide.  At  one  time  the 

62 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     63 

culprit  is  caught  and  safely  lodged  in  the 
Bastile  ;  at  another  he  is  as  free  as  the 
deer  on  the  plains.  Gassier  did  escape, 
but  some  incidents  of  the  chase  were 
perilous  and  exciting. 

Travelling  in  those  days  was  slow  and 
difficult.  The  giant  steam-engines  that  now 
sweep  over  hills  and  torrents  with  a  speed 
that  rivals  the  swoop  of  the  sea-bird 
were  unknown.  The  rickety  old  dili 
gence  or  stage-coach  was  only  found  on 
the  principal  thoroughfares  between  the 
large  cities. 

Gassier  knew  these  roads  would  be  the 
first  taken  in  pursuit,  and  carefully  avoided 
them.  Seeking  a  destination  where  the 
chances  of  detection  would  be  lessened, 
he  was  attracted  towards  Geneva,  already 
famous  as  the  hot-bed  of  secret  societies 
and  the  rallying-point  of  infidelity.  He 
would  reach  it  by  a  circuitous  route.  From 
Paris  to  the  historic  old  capital  of  Switzer 
land,  in  the  centre  of  mountains  and  the 
heart  of  Europe,  was  a  herculean  journey 
for  the  fugitives. 


64     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

On  they  went  for  two  and  three  days' 
journey,  stopping  at  humble  inns  on  the 
roadside  where  the  news  of  the  capital 
had  not  reached.  Time  inured  them  to 
danger  and  calmed  the  fever  of  anxiety 
consequent  upon  their  hurried  and  hazard 
ous  flight. 

But  the  avenging  law  had  followed  in 
close  pursuit.  The  officers  of  the  Govern 
ment  were  directed  from  village  to  village  ; 
they  found  themselves  on  the  track  of  an 
old  man  and  two  beardless  youths  in  naval 
cadet  costume.  The  chase  became  exciting. 
Wealth  and  fame  awaited  their  capture. 

One  evening,  in  the  glow  of  a  magni 
ficent  sunset,  Gassier  and  his  daughters 
were  wending  their  way  along  one  of  the 
picturesque  roads  of  the  Cote  d'Or.  They 
were  on  the  slope  of  a  shady  mountain,  and 
through  a  vista  of  green  foliage  they  could 
see  the  road  they  had  passed  for  miles  in 
the  distance.  The  silence  of  the  mountain 
side  was  unbroken,  save  by  the  music  of 
wild  birds  and  the  roar  of  a  torrent  that 
leaped  through  the  moss-covered  rocks  to- 


Alvira,  Ike  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      65 

wards  the  valley.  The  wild  flowers  gave 
aromatic  sweetness  to  the  mountain-breeze, 
and  the  orb  of  day,  slowly  sinking  in  a 
bank  of  luminous  crimson  clouds  in  the  dis 
tant  horizon,  made  the  scene  all  that  could 
be  painted  by  the  most  brilliant  fancy. 
Our  young  heroines  gave  frequent  ex 
pression  to  their  delight,  but  their  aged 
sire  was  silent  and  watchful.  He  fre 
quently  took  long  and  piercing  looks  on 
the  road  he  had  passed.  Anxiety  man 
tled  on  his  wrinkled  brow ;  a  forebod 
ing  of  danger  cast  its  prophetic  gloom 
over  his  spirits. 

Suddenly  he  turned  from  a  long,  fixed 
look  through  the  trees,  and  with  a  thrill  of 
alarm  cried  out :  "They  are  coming!  " 

For  a  moment  he  gave  the  jaded  horses 
the  whip.  He  refused  any  further  informa 
tion  to  the  terrified  girls  ;  he  bit  his  lip, 
drew  his  sword  close  to  him,  and  prepared 
for  a  struggle  ;  for  he  had  resolved  to  die 
rather  than  go  back  a  prisoner  to  Paris. 

The  pursuers  were  each  moment  gaining 
ground ;  the  costume  of  the  gendarmes 


66     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

was  discernible  as  they  galloped  in  a  cloud 
of  dust  along  the  plain.  The  hill  was  long 
and  heavy  before  the  wearied  horses  of  Gas 
sier.  He  saw  flight  was  vain  ;  stratagem 
must  come  to  his  aid  in  the  emergency. 

At  this  moment  he  came  to  a  turn  in 
the  mountain  road  where  the  trees  were 
thicker  and  the  shade  more  dense.  Like 
a  skilful  general  in  the  critical  moment 
when  victory  and  defeat  hang,  as  it  were, 
on  the  cast  of  a  die,  he  conceived  instan 
taneously  the  plan  of  a  desperate  expe 
dient.  He  drew  up  his  horses  and  bade 
his  trembling  children  await  his  return. 

Returning  a  few  paces  he  secreted  him 
self  behind  an  oak-tree  and  calmly  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  Government  officers. 

Soon  the  clatter  of  the  galloping  horses 
was  heard  in  the  distance.  The  wild 
scream  of  startled  birds  resounded  through 
the  groves ;  the  sun  seemed  to  glow  in  a 
deeper  crimson,  the  breezes  sighed  a 
mournful  cadence  through  the  waving  foli 
age.  On  the  troopers  came  up  the  side  of 
the  hill.  Gassier  has  counted  them — they 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     67 

are  but  two  ;  despair  has  lent  courage  to 
his  heart,  and  will  give  a  giant  stroke  to 
his  aged  arm. 

At  the  sight  of-  the  suspected  caleche 
drawn  up  in  the  shady  road,  one  of  the 
pursuing  officers  gave  spurs  to  his  horse, 
and  flew  out  before  his  companion  to  seize 
the  prey — to  be  the  first  captor  of  the 
delinquent  fugitive.  Fatal  indiscretion! 
Plunging  along  at  desperate  speed,  and 
dreaming  of  gold  and  renown,  the  burnish 
ed  sword  of  Gassier  took  his  horse  on  the 
flank.  Its  rider  fell  to  the  earth  ;  before 
he  had  seen  his  enemy,  the  sword  of  Gas 
sier  had  pierced  his  heart. 

A  scream  from  the  carriage  announced 
that  the  scene  had  been  witnessed  by  ten 
der  girls  who  had  not  been  accustomed  to 
deeds  of  violence  and  bloodshed.  But  the 
combat  has  now  but  commenced.  The 
battle  of  the  Horatii  and  Curatii,  on  which 
an  empire  depended,  was  not  more  fierce. 

The  second  gendarme  saw  the  fate  of  his 
companion  ;  he  reined  his  horse,  dismount 
ed,  and  came  with  drawn  sword  to  meet 


68     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

the  Parisian  banker,  who  had  now  become 
a  mountain  bandit. 

When  Greek  met  Greek  in  the  days  of 
old,  the  earth  trembled.  Never  was  more 
equal  or  deadly  fight.  Gassier  had  learned 
the  sword  exercise  in  his  youth  as  a  useful 
art ;  the  police  officer  was  a  swordsman 
from  profession.  For  a  moment  sparks 
flew  from  the  whirling,  burnished  blades, 
The  silence  of  deep  resolve  wrapt  the 
features  of  the  combatants  in  fierce  rigi 
dity.  Again  and  again  they  struck  and 
parried,  struck  and  parried,  until  wearied  na 
ture  gave  feeble  response  to  the  maddened 
soul.  The  aged  Gassier  felt,  from  his  age 
and  fatigue,  about  to  succumb  ;  gathering  all 
his  strength  for  a  desperate  effort,  he  threw 
his  weight  into  a  well-measured  shoulder 
stroke,  when,  lo !  his  antagonist's  sword 
flew  in  pieces — the  brave  gendarme  fell 
weltering  in  the  blood  of  his  murdered 
companion. 

All  is  still  again.  The  sun  has  gone 
down  in  murky  splendor,  the  birds  are  si 
lent,  and  the  solitude  of  the  wild  mountain- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     69 

pass  is  like  the  night,  that  is  darker  after 
the  flash  of  the  meteor.  The  hapless  but 
brave  soldiers  of  justice  lie  in  their  ar 
mor  on  the  field  of  battle ;  the  fresh  blood 
gurgles  from  the  gaping  wounds,  and  the 
madness  of  defeat  is  fiercely  stamped  on 
their  bronzed  features ;  one  holds  in  death- 
grasp  the  unsheathed  sword  he  had  not 
time  to  wield,  the  other  still  stares  with 
open  eye  on  the  broken  blade  that  proved 
his  ruin. 

A  heavy  splash  and  a  crimson  streak  in 
the  foam  announce  that  the  torrent  has 
become  the  grave  of  the  fallen  police ;  the 
road,  steeped  with  blood,  is  covered  with 
fresh  earth  ;  the  scene  that  witnessed  the 
tragedy  is  fair  and  beautiful  as  before. 
Gassier,  reassured,  with  bold  step  and 
pulse  of  pride,  turns  towards  his  convey 
ance  to  resume  his  journey. 

Aloysia  was  just  recovering  from  a  faint- 
in  o-  fit,  and  her  sister  had  labored  to  re- 

o 

store  her  during  the  exciting  moments  of 
the  deadly  strife  that  had  just  been  con 
cluded.  Neither  of  them  saw  the  perilous 


70      Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

situation  of  their  father,  and  were  thus 
saved  the  shock  the  extremity  of  his 
peril  was  calculated  to  have  produced. 

A  few  days  found  them  safely  across 
the  frontiers  of  France,  threading  the 
passes  of  the  Alps,  and  away  from  the 
grasp  of  justice,  that  pursued  them  in  vain. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

GENEVA. 

As  the  wearied  stag  that  has  eluded  the 
chasing  dogs  rests  in  safety  in  the  covert 
of  its  native  mountains,  our  fugitives  at 
length  breathed  freely  in  the  beautiful  city 
of  Geneva.  Wild  and  grand  as  had  been 
the  scenery  they  passed  through,  the  ex 
citement  of  the  flight  and  the  fear  of  seiz 
ure  had,  to  them,  robbed  nature  of  her 
charms.  Ever  and  anon,  indeed,  they  had 
looked  around  with  searching  eyes,  but  not 
to  gaze  in  rapture  on  the  snow-capped 
mountains,  the  green  valleys,  and  crystal 
streams ;  it  was  rather  to  peer  along  the 
road  they  had  passed,  to  see  if  any  speck 
on  the  horizon  would  indicate  the  pursu 
ing  horses  of  the  gendarmes.  But  now  for 
the  first  time  the  magnificence  of  the  Alpine 
scenery  and  the  charm  of  the  lovely  queen 


72     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

of  the  Swiss  valleys  burst  on  their  view. 
Mont  Blanc,  already  seen  from  the  north, 
seemed  to  lift  its  snowy  drapery  higher  in 
to  the  blue  sky,  and  stood  out  more  majes 
tic  in  its  crystallized  peaks  when  seen  from 
the  bridges  of  the  Rhone.  Another  fir 
mament  was  seen  through  the  clear,  azure 
water  of  the  beautiful  lake ;  and  although 
the  air  was  cold  and  fresh  in  the  icy  chill 
of  the  mountains,  and  nature  stripped  of 
her  green,  yet  our  young  heroines  were 
charmed  with  their  first  view  of  the  city, 
and  rejoiced  in  the  prospect  of  a  long  so 
journ. 

There  are  few  spots  in  the  world  where 
the  lovers  of  the  sublimities  of  nature  can 
drink  in  such  visual  feasts  as  at  Geneva. 
Since  railways  have  shortened  distance 
and  cut  through  mountains,  there  is 
no  more  fashionable  rendezvous  for  the 
world  of  art  than  the  suburbs  of  the 
Swiss  capital.  During  the  summer  months 
every  little  nook  on  the  surrounding  moun 
tain-sides  is  occupied  by  artists  of  every 
sejc  and  of  every  nation.  What  juvenile  al- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     73 

bum  is  complete  without  a  sketch  of  Mont 
Blanc  ?  The  old  mountain  stands  out  in  its 
eternal  majesty  as  a  vision  of  awful  beauty 
for  old  and  young ;  and  many  a  noble  soul 
has  been  borne  from  the  contemplation  of 
the  grandeur  of  nature  to  study  in  awe  the 
greatness  of  Him  "  who  makes  mountains 
his  footstools."  The  artificial  beauties  of 
the  modern  Geneva  far  surpass  the  old  ; 
yet  those  mountains,  those  peaks  and 
snows  and  lakes,  were  always  there.  It 
was  beautiful  in  the  time  of  Ccesar ;  it  was 
known  to  Constantine,  and  crept  into  im 
portance  and  worth  in  proportion  as  sci 
ence  and  art  were  developed  in  the  civili 
zation  of  Europe. 

At  the  time  we  write  the  beautiful  Swiss 
capital  was  one  of  the  principal  seats  of 
learning  in  Europe.  But,  alas  !  its  litera 
ture  was  blasted  by  the  false  principles 
of  the  Reformation.  Like  marble  ceno 
taphs  that  have  corruption  within,  Geneva, 
clothed  with  all  the  beauties  of  nature  and 
art,  was  rotten  to  the  core  in  her  moral 
and  religious  character.  She  became  the 


74     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

mother  cf  heresiarchs,  the  theatre  of  in 
fidelity,  and  by  her  press  and  preaching 
scattered  far  and  wide  the  wildest  theories 
of  deism  and  unbelief.  All  the  secret  so 
cieties  of  the  world  were  represented  in 
her  lodges,  and  within  her  walls  were  ga 
thered  men  of  desperate  and  socialistic  po 
litics  who  had  sworn  to  overturn  as  far  as 
they  could  the  authority  of  society,  to  de 
spise  the  rights  of  property,  and  to  trample 
on  the  laws  of  order.  There  was  no  city 
in  the  world  guilty  of  more  blasphemy 
than  this  beautiful  Geneva  ;  and  even  to 
this  day,  as  the  sins  of  fathers  descend  to 
their  children,  the  teachings  of  Calvin,  of 
Bayle,  and  of  Servetus  hang  like  a  chronic 
curse  over  the  city  to  warp  every  noble 
feeling  of  Christian  virtue. 

Amongst  the  leaders  of  the  secret  so 
cieties,  amongst  the  socialists  who  plot  the 
ruin  of  their  fellow-citizens,  and  amongst 
the  infidels  who  blasphemously  ridicule 
the  mysteries  of  Christianity,  we  must 
now  seek  the  unfortunate  Cassier,  who 
has  arrived  in  Geneva, 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE   SECRET    SOCIETIES. 

To  outsiders  Masonry  is  a  mystery. 
When  Masons  speak  or  write  of  themselves 
they  give  the  world  to  understand  they  are 
but  a  harmless  union  for  mutual  benefit,  and 
for  the  promotion  of  works  of  benevolence. 
That  such  is  the  belief  of  many  individuals 
in  the  lower  grades  of  Masonry,  and  even 
of  some  lodges  amongst  the  thousands 
scattered  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  we 
have  no  doubt ;  but  that  charity  in  its  va 
ried  branches  has  been  either  the  teaching 
or  the  fact  amongst  the  great  bulk  of  Free 
masons  during  the  last  two  hundred  years 
we  unhesitatingly  deny. 

In  the  ceremony  of  making  a  master- 
mason,  and  in  a  dark  room,  with  a  coffin 
in  the  centre  covered  with  a  pall,  the  breth 
ren  standing  around  in  attitudes  'enoting 
75 


76     A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

grief  and  sorrow,  the  mysterious  official 
who  has  the  privilege  of  three  stars  before 
his  name  gives  the  aspirant  this  interesting 
history  of  the  origin  and  aim  of  his  office  : 

"  Over  the  workmen  who  were  building 
the  temple  erected  by  Solomon's  orders 
there  presided  Adoniram.  There  were 
about  3,000  workmen.  That  each  one 
might  receive  his  due,  Adoniram  divided 
them  into  three  classes — apprentices,  fel 
low-craftsmen,  and  masters.  He  entrusted 
each  class  with  a  word,  signs,  and  a  grip 
by  which  they  might  be  recognized.  Each 
class  was  to  preserve  the  greatest  secrecy 
as  to  these  sicnis  and  words.  Three  of 

o 

the  fellow-crafts,  wishing  to  know  the  word 
of  the  master,  and  by  that  means  obtain  his 
salary,  hid  themselves  in  the  temple,  and 
each  posted  himself  at  a  different  gate.  At 
the  usual  time  when  Adoniram  came  to 
shut  the  gates  of  the  temple,  the  first  of  the 
three  fellow-crafts  met  him,  and  demanded 
the  word  of  the  masters.  Adoniram  re 
fused  to  give  it,  and  received  a  violent 
blow  with  a  stick  on  the  head.  He  flies 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      77 

to  *  lother  gate,  is  met,  challenged,  and 
treated  in  a  similar  manner  by  the  second. 
Flying  to  the  third  door,  he  is  killed  by  the 
fellow-craft  posted  there  on  his  refusing 
to  betray  the  word.  His  assassins  bury 
him  under  a  heap  of  ruins,  and  mark  the 
spot  with  a  branch  of  acacia. 

"  Adoniram's  absence  gives  great  uneasi 
ness  to  Solomon  and  the  masters.  He  is 
sought  for  everywhere  ;  at  length  one  of 
the  masters  discovers  a  corpse,  and,  taking 
it  by  the  finger,  the  finger  parts  from  the 
hand ;  he  takes  it  by  the  wrist,  and  it  parts 
from  the  arm ;  when  the  master,  in  as 
tonishment,  cries  out  '  Mac  Benacl  which 
the  craft  interprets  by  the  words,  '  The  flesh 
parts  from  the  bones.' " 

The  history  finished,  the  adept  is  in 
formed  that  the  object  of  the  degree  which 
he  has  just  received  is  to  recover  the  word 
lost  by  the  death  of  Adoniram,  and  to  re 
venge  this  martyr  of  the  Masonic  secrecy. 

Thousands  of  years  have  rolled  over 
since  the  alleged  death  of  the  clerk  of  works 
at  Solomon's  temple,  and  if  the  streams  of 


78     Alvira,  the  H reroine  of  Vesuvius. 

human  blood  that  his  would-be  avengers 
have  caused  to  flow  have  not  satiated  this 
blood-thirsty  shade,  those  that  Masons, 
Communists,  Internationals,  and  other  se 
cret  societies  will  yet  cause  to  flow  in  the 
cities  of  Europe  will  surely  avenge  the  ill- 
fated  Adoniram. 

It  is  also  asserted  by  some  Masons  of 
strong  powers  of  imagination  that  they 
take  their  origin  from  the  Eleusinian  Mys 
teries.  These  were  pagan  orgies  attached 
to  some  Grecian  temples.  Surrounded  by 
mysterious  ceremonies  and  symbols,  and 
supported  by  every  mythical  and  allego 
rical  illusion  that  could  inspire  ;.we  or 
confidence,  these  mysteries  were  very  po 
pular  amongst  the  Greeks. 

"  The  mysteries  of  Eleusis,"  says  the 
profound  German  mythologist,  Creuzer, 
"  did  not  only  teach  resignation,  but,  as 
we  see  by  the  verses  of  Homer  to  Ceres 
sung  on  those  occasions,  they  afforded 
consoling  promises  of  a  better  futurity. 
'  Happy  is  the  mortal/  it  is  said  there, 
'who  hath  been  able  to  contemplate  these 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      79 

grand  scenes  !  But  he  who  hath  not  ta 
ken  part  in  these  holy  ceremonies  is  for 
ever  deprived  of  a  like  lot,  even  when 
death  has  drawn  him  down  into  its  gloomy 
abodes/ " 

Harmless  and  absurd  as  these  mysteries 
were  in  the  commencement,  they  after 
wards  lapsed  into  all  the  immoralities  of 
pagan  worship.  But  to  give  such  a  re 
mote,  and  even  such  a  noble,  origin  to 
the  frivolous  deism  of  modern  Masonry  is 
about  as  absurd  as  to  say  that  men  were 
at  one  time  all  monkeys. 

The  truth  is,  Freemasonry  was  never 
heard  of  until  the  latter  part  of  the  Mid 
dle  Ages.  It  found  its  infancy  among  the 
works  of  the  great  cathedral  of  Stras- 
burg.  Erwin  of  Steinbach,  the  leading 
architect  employed  in  the  erection  of  this 
beautiful  and  stupendous  work  of  architec 
tural  beauty,  called  around  him  other  no 
ted  men  from  the  different  cities  of  Ger 
many,  Switzerland,  and  France  ;  he  formed 
the  first  locl^e.  The  members  became 

o 

deputies    for    the    formation    of   lodges   in 


8o     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

other  cities,  and  thus  in  1459  the  heads  of 
these  lodges  assembled  at  Ratisbon,  and 
drew  up  their  Act  of  Incorporation,  which 
instituted  in  perpetuity  the  lodge  of  Stras- 
burg  as  the  chief  lodge,  and  its  president 
as  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Freemasons  of 
Germany. 

The  masters,  journeymen,  and  appren 
tices  formed  a  corporation  having  special 
jurisdiction  in  different  localities.  In  order 
not  to  be  confounded  with  the  vulgar  me 
chanics  who  could  only  use  the  hammer 
and  the  trowel,  the  Freemasons  invented 
signs  of  mutual  recognition  and  certain  cere 
monies  of  initiation.  A  traditionary  secret 
was  handed  down,  revealed  to  the  initiated, 
and  that  only  according  to  the  degrees  they 
had  attained.  They  adopted  for  symbols 
the  square,  the  level,  the  compass,  and  the 
hammer.  In  some  lodges  and  in  higher 
grades  (for  they  differ  almost  in  every  na 
tion)  we  find  the  Bible,  compass,  and 
square  only.  By  the  Bible  given  to  the 
aspirant  he  is  to  understand  he  is  to  ac 
knowledge  no  other  l:i\v  but  that  of  Adam 


Alvira,  tJie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     81 

—the  law  which  Almighty  God  had  en 
graved  on  his  heart,  and  which  is  called 
the  law  of  nature  (thereby  rejecting  the 
laws  of  the  Church  and  society).  The 
compass  recalls  to  his  mind  that  God  is 
the  central  point  of  everything,  from  which 
everything  is  equally  distant,  and  to  which 
everything  is  equallv  near.  By  the  square 
he  is  to  learn  that  God  made  everything 
equal.  The  drift  of  these  symbolic  ex 
planations  is  obvious. 

In  the  ceremonies  of  initiation  into  the 
various  degrees  everything  was  devised 
that  could  strike  the  imagination,  awaken 
curiosity,  or  excite  terror.  The  awful  oath 
that  has  been  administered  in  some  Conti 
nental  lodges  would  send  a  thrill  of  horror 
through  every  right-minded  person,  whilst 
the  lugubrious  ceremonies  the  aspirant  has 
to  pass  elicit  a  smile — such,  for  instance,  of 
leading  the  vounir  Mason  with  bandaged 

o  J  O  ^* 

eyes  around  the  inner  temple,  and  in  the 
higher  grades  presenting  him  with  a  dag 
ger,  which  he  is  to  plunge  into  a  manikin 
stuffed  with  bladders  full  of  blood,  and  de- 


82     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 
clare   that  thus  he  will  be  avenged  of  the 

o 

death  of  Adoniram  !  Then  he  is  instructed 
in  the  code  of  secret  signals  by  which  he 
can  recognize  a  brother  on  the  street,  on 
the  bench,  or  on  the  field  of  battle.  Ca 
rousing  till  midnight  is  a  befitting  finale  to 
the  proceedings  of  the  lodge. 

The  doctrines  or  religious  code  of  the  Ma 
sons  are,  as  their  symbols  indicate,  deistic 
and  anti-Christian.  They  openly  shake  off 
the  control  of  all  religion,  and  pretend  to  be 
in  possession  of  a  secret  to  make  men  better 
and  happier  than  Christ,  his  apostles,  and 
his  Church  have  made  them  or  can  make 
them.  "The  pretension,"  sa)  s  Professor 
Robertson,  "  is  monstrous  !  " 

How  is  this  exoteric  teaching  consistent 
with  the  full  and  final  revelation  of  divine 
truths?  If  in  the  deep  midnight  of  hea 
thenism  the  sage  had  been  justified  in  seek 
ing  in  the.  mysteries  of  Eleusis  for  a  keener 
apprehension  of  the  truths  of  primitive  re 
ligion,  how  does  this  justify  the  Mason,  in 
the  middav  effulgence  of  Christianity,  in 
telling  mankind  he  has  a  wonderful  secret 


Alvira,  tJie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      83 

for  advancing  them  in  virtue  and  happiness 
— a  secret  unknown  to  the  incarnate  God, 
and  to  the  Church  with  which  he  has  pro 
mised  the  Paraclete  should  abide  for  ever? 
And  even  the  Protestant,  who  rejects  the 
teaching  of  that  unerring  Church,  if  he  ad 
mits  Christianity  to  be  a  final  revelation, 
must  scout  the  pretensions  of  a  society  that 
claims  the  possession  of  moral  truths  un 
known  to  the  Christian  religion. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  original 
cast  of  the  religious  views  of  the  Masonic 
order,  it  is  certain  in  its  development 
it  has  become  impious  and  blaspheming. 
In  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century  the  Masonic  lodges  were  the 
hot-beds  of  sedition  and  revolution ;  and 
long  before  the  popes  from  their  high 
watch-tower  of  the  Vatican  had  hurl 
ed  on  these  secret  gatherings  the  ana 
thema  of  condemnation,  they  were  inter 
dicted  in  England  by  the  Government  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  ;  they  were  checked 
in  France  by  Louis  XV.  (1729);  they 
were  prescribed  in  Holland  in  1735,  and 


84     A  fair  a,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

successively  in  Flanders,  in  Sweden,  in 
Poland,  in  Spain,  in  Portugal,  in  Hungary, 
and  in  Switzerland.  In  Vienna,  in  1/43,  a 
lodge  was  burst  into  by  soldiers.  The  Free 
masons  had  to  give  up  their  swords  and 
were  conducted  to  prison  ;  but  as  there 
were  personages  of  high  rank  among  them, 
they  were  let  free  on  parole  and  their  as 
semblies  finally  prohibited.  These  facts 
prove  there  was  something  more  than 
mutual  benefit  associations  in  Masonry. 
"  When  we  consider,"  says  M.  Picot,  "  that 
Freemasonry  was  born  with  irreligion; 
that  it  grew  up  with  it ;  that  it  has  kept 
pace  with  its  progress  ;  that  it  has  never 
pleased  any  men  but  those  who  were 
either  impious  or  indifferent  about  re 
ligion  ;  and  that  it  has  always  been  re 
garded  with  disfavor  by  zealous  Catho 
lics,  we  can  only  regard  it  as  an  insti 
tution  bad  in  itself  and  dangerous  in  its 
effects." 

Robinson  of  Edinburgh,  who  was  a 
Protestant  and  at  one  time  a  Mason  him 
self,  says :  "  I  believe  no  ordinary  brother 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     85 

will  say  that  the  occupations  of  the  lodges 
are  anything  better  than  frivolous,  very 
frivolous  indeed.  The  distribution  of  cha 
rity  needs  to  be  no  secret,  and  it  is  but  a 
small  part  of  the  employment  of  the  meet 
ing.  Mere  frivolity  can  never  occupy  men 
come  to  age,  and  accordingly  we  see  in 
every  part  of  Europe  where  Freemason 
ry  has  been  established  the  lodges  have 
become  seed-beds  of  public  mischief." 

This  was  particularly  true  of  the  lodges 
of  the  central  cities  of  Europe  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  They 
were  not  only  politically  obnoxious  to  go 
vernments,  but  they  became  the  agents 
and  supporters  of  all  the  heretical  theories 
of  the  day,  and  their  evil  effects  were  felt 
in  the  domestic  circle.  Like  animals  that 
hate  the  li^ht  and  crawl  out  from  their 

o 

hiding-places  when  the  world  is  abandoned 
by  man,  the  members  of  those  impious  ga 
therings  passed  their  nights  in  mysterious 
conclave.  Fancy  can  paint  the  scene: 
weak-minded  men  of  every  shade  of  un 
belief,  men  of  dishonest  and  immoral  sen- 


86      Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

timents,  men  who,  if  justice  had  her  due, 
should  have  swung  on  the  gallows  or 
eked  out  a  miserable  existence  in  some 
criminal's  cell,  joined  in  league  to  trample 
on  the  laws  and  constitution  of  order,  and, 
in  the  awful  callousness  of  intoxication,  ut 
tering  every  blasphemous  and  improper 
thought  the  evil  one  could  suggest.  What 
must  have  been  the  character  of  the  homes 
that  received  such  men  after  their  midnight 
revels?  Many  a  happy  household  has 
been  turned  into  grief  through  their  de 
moralizing  influence  ;  mothers,  wives,  and 
daughters  have  often,  in  the  lonely  hours 
of  midnight,  sat  up  with  a  scanty  light 
and  a  dying  hre  awaiting  the  late  return 
of  a  son,  a  husband,  or  a  brother;  with 
many  a  sigh  they  would  trace  the  ruin  of 
their  domestic  felicity  and  the  wreck  of 
their  family  to  some  lodge  of  the  secret 
societies. 

Before  appealing  to  facts  and  bringing 
the  reader  to  a  scene  of  domestic  misery 
caused  by  those  societies,  we  will  conclude 
these  remarks  by  quoting  one  or  two  verses 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     87 

from  a  parody  on  a  very  popular  Ameri 
can  song.  We  believe  the  lines  represent 
ing  the  poor  little  child  calling  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night,  in  the  cold  and  wet,  at 
the  Masonic  lodofe  for  its  father,  to  be  as 

<_> 

truthful  in  the  realities  of  domestic  suffer 
ing  as  they  are  beautiful  and  touching  in 
poetic  sentiment : 

"  Father,  dear  father,  stop  home  with  us.  pray 

You  never  stop  home  with  us  now  ; 
Tis  always  the  '  lodge  '  or  '  lodge  business,'  you  say 

That  will  not  home  pleasures  allow. 
Poor  mother  says  benevolence  is  all  very  well, 

And  your  efforts  would  yield  her  delight, 
If  they  did  not  take  up  so  much  of  your  time, 

And  keep  you  from  home  every  night. 

"  Father,  dear  father,  stop  home  with  us,  pray  ! 

Poor  mother's  deserted,  she  said, 
And    she  wept  o'er  your  absence  one    night,  till 

away 

From  our  home  to  your  lodge-room  I  sped. 
A  man  with  a  red  collar  came  out  and  smiled, 

And  patted  my  cheeks,  cold  and  blue, 
And  I  told  him  I  was  a  good  Templar's  child, 
And  was  waiting,  dear  father,  for  you. 

"  Father,  dear  father,  come  home  with  me  now  ; 
You  left  us  before  half-past  seven, 


88     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

Don't  say  you'll  come  soon,  with  a  frown  on  your 
brow  ; 

Twill  soon,  father  dear,  be  eleven. 
Your  supper  is  cold,  for  the  fire  is  quite  dead, 

And  mother  to  bed  has  gone,  too  ; 
And  these  were  the  very  last  words  that  she  said  : 

'  I  hate  those  Freemasons,  I  do  !  '  " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    FREEMASOiVs    HOME. 

LATE  on  a  dark  night  in  the  commence 
ment  of  November,  wind  and  rain  blowing 
with  violence  from  the  mountains,  and  the 
streets  of  Geneva  abandoned,  we  find  our 
young  heroines  sitting  in  a  comfortable 
room.  They  are  lounging  on  easy-chairs 
before  a  warm  fire;  the  eldest  is  reading, 
and  the  youngest,  although  dressed  in  the 
pretty  uniform  of  a  naval  cadet,  is  working 
at  embroidery  with  colored  wools. 

Alvira  and  Aloysia,  at  the  command  of 
their  father,  have  still  preserved  their  dis 
guise,  at  first  irksome  to  their  habits  and 
delicacy  of  maidenhood  ;  but  necessity  and 
fear  toned  down  their  objection,  and  they 
gradually  accustomed  themselves  to  the 
change.  In  girlish  simplicity  they  were 
pleased  with  the  novelty  of  their  position. 


90     Alairci,)  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

They  knew  each  other  as  Charles  and 
Henry,  and  by  these  names  we  must  now 
call  them. 

The  old  clock  of  the  church  on  the  hill 
sent  the  mournful  tones  of  the  eleventh 
hour  over  the  silent  city.  Charles  counted 
the  solemn  booms  of  the  church  bell,  and 
then,  as  if  resuming  the  conversation  with 
Henry :  "  Eleven  o'clock,  and  father  not 
come  home  yet!  I  am  sure  1  don't  know 
what  keeps  father  out  every  night  so  late  ; 
if  poor  mother  were  alive,  she  would  never 
stand  this." 

"  But  perhaps  pa  may  have  important 
business  and  can't  come  home,"  we  hear 
the  amiable  Henry  suggesting. 

"  Business  !  Nothing  of  the  kind.  He 
has  got  in  amongst  some  old  fools  who 
pretend  to  have  more  knowledge  than  their 
grandfathers,  and  are  deceiving  old  women 
of  both  sexes  to  such  a  degree  that  they 
actually  fancy  they  are  inspired  to  make 
new  Bibles,  new  commandments,  and  new 
churches." 

"  But  father  may  be  trying  to  put  them 


Atvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.      91 

right,"  replied  Henry  softly,  "and  perhaps 
feels  as  you  do.  How  sad  to  see  them  going 
astray !  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  other  with  greater 
animation,  "  he  is  as  bad  as  any  of  them. 
You  remember  long  ago  how  he  used  to 
make  poor  mother  cry  when  speaking  of 
the  great  mystery  of  the  Redemption  ;  he 
called  it  the  greatest  swindle  the  world 
ever  saw.  You  remember  what  blasphe 
mous  and  insulting  language  he  addressed 
to  the  Sisters  of  St.  Vincent  when  they 
asked  for  alms  in  honor  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  ;  and  you  know  how  he  is  always 
reading  the  most  impious  works. 

"  He  is  now  shut  up  in  one  of  those  mys- 
erious  rooms  called  Freemason  lodges, 
where,  if  report  be  true,  the  enemies  of 
Church  and  state  plot  the  ruin  of  mankind. 
Henry,  he  is  not  only  an  infidel  and  a 
Freemason,  but  he  is  unkind  to  us." 

Saying  these  last  words,  Charles  rose 
and  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  as  if  full 
of  passion. 

Faith,  like  anemones  that  flourish  in  the 


92     Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

depths  of  the  ocean  when  the  surface  is 
tossed  with  storm,  was  concealed  in  the 
heart  of  Charles,  and  inspired  those  feel 
ings  of  holy  indignation  which  live  in  secret 
in  the  heart  even  when  passion  rages  in 
triumph  without. 

Henry  ventured  a  reply,  but  the  excited 
manner  of  her  sister  checked  her,  and,  bury 
ing  her  face  in  her  hands,  she  remained  in 
silence.  Well  she  knew  Charles  was 
right,  and  in  the  deep  sympathy  of  her  in 
nocent,  losing  heart  her  feelings  crept  into 
prayer  for  her  erring  parent,  and  silent 
tears  suffused  her  eyes. 

Whilst  the  two  girls  were  thus  engaged 
— the  one  pacing  the  room  and  biting  her 
lips  with  annoyance,  the  other  wrapt  in 
prayer  and  tears — the  step  of  Cassier  was 
heard  on  the  stairs. 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Charles.  He  had 
given  loose  rein  to  his  passion,  and  it  was 
at  this  moment  beyond  control.  The  scene 
reminds  us  of  a  poor  wife,  the  hapless 
victim  of  a  drunkard's  home,  drawing  on 
herself  brutal  treatment,  when,  in  the  lone- 


Alvtra,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     93 

ly  hours  of  midnight  arid  in  the  pent-up 
feelings  of  a  breaking  heart,  she  would 
incautiously  reprove  the  maddened  wretch 
who  is  reeling  home  to  her  under  the 
fumes  of  intoxication  ;  thus  Charles  crave 

o 

vent  to  feelings  she  had  long  nursed  in  her 
bosom,  and  spoke  in  disrespectful  language 
of  reproof  to  her  intoxicated  father. 

Gassier  had  come  from  the  carousals  of 
the  lodge.  The  fumes  of  the  old  wines  had 
reached  his  brain  ;  the  fearless  and  unex 
pected  reproof  of  Charles  startled  him. 
In  an  instant  the  demon  of  intemperance 
reigned  in  his  heart;  without  waiting  to 
answer,  he  approached  the  girl,  gave  her 
a  severe  slap  on  the  face,  and  ordered  her 
to  her  apartments. 

Charles  and  Henry  retired  to  a  sleepless 
couch,  and  their  pillow  was  moistened  with 
many  bitter  tears  before  the  dawn  of  the 
morning. 

In  a  small  spark  commences  the  con 
flagration  that  destroys  cities ;  the  broad 
river  that  flows  with  irresistible  majesty 
through  our  plains  commences  in  a  riv- 


94     Alvira^  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

ulet  leaping  and  sparkling  on  the  green 
hill-side  ;  the  mighty  avalanche  that  sweeps 
with  the  roar  of  thunder  through  the  Al 
pine  ravines  commences  in  a  handful  of 
loosened  snow.  Thus  to  a  thought,  a 
guilty  desire  uncontrolled,  may  be  traced 
the  greatest  moral  catastrophes. 

A  cloud  passed  over  the  thoughts  of 
Charles.  From  the  momentous  evening 
she  received  the  rebuke  of  her  father,  her 
heart  became  the  battle-field  of  contending 
emotions.  She  brooded  in  silence  over 
imaginary  wrongs,  and  thus  gave  to  a 
latent  passion  the  first  impulse  that  led  to 
disastrous  consequences.  Diseased  fancy 
lent  a  charm  to  thoughts  long  forgotten, 
and  recalled  the  pictures  of  pride  and  am 
bition  that  had  so  often  gilded  the  horizon 
of  her  young  hopes.  To  be  free  and  have 
wealth,  she  thought,  was  worth  swimming 
across  a  river  of  blood  to  gain. 

A  temptation  seized  the  thoughts  of 
Charles.  It  clung  to  her  like  the  blood 
sucker  drawing  fr~sh  streams  from  young 
veins.  Notwithstanding  her  efforts  to 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     95 

shake  off  the  terrible  temptation,  and  be 
cause  she  did  not  seek  aid  in  the  sacraments 
of  the  Church,  it  lived  and  haunted  her  in 
spite  of  her  will.  We  tremble  to  write  it 
— 'twas  to  murder  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

i 

TRAGEDY    IN    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

Come,  you  spirits 

That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here, 
And  fill  me  from  the  crown  to  the  toe  topful 
Of  direst  cruelty  !     Make  thick  my  blood  ; 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse, 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it.     Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief!     Come,  thick  night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry,  "Hold,  hold!" 

— MACBETH. 

POOR  Alvira !  Her  morning  dawned 
after  a  restless,  sleepless  night.  Phan 
toms  of  terror  haunted  her  couch.  The 
agonies  of  anticipated  remorse  had  cast  a 
withering  shadow  on  her  thoughts.  She 

96 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     97 

could  not  believe  her  own  depravity  in 
entertaining  for  a  moment  such  a  thrilling 
temptation. 

Was  it  a  dream?  Was  it  the  hallucina 
tion  of  a  spirit  of  evil  that  revels  in  the 
human  passions  ?  "  I,  who  love  my  father 
notwithstanding  his  faults,  who  would 
tremble  at  the  gaze  of  my  mother  look 
ing  down  from  heaven  on  my  awful  im 
piety,  and  would  hear  from  her  tomb  her 
scream  of  terror,  her  curse  of  vengeance 
on  my  parricidal  guilt — could  I  be  the 
foolish  wretch  that  would  consent  to  a 
deed  of  crime  which  would  make  me  a 
fugitive  from  the  face  of  men,  and  haunt 
my  rest  with  the  ghost  of  a  murdered  fa 
ther  ?  " 

Thus  Alvira  mused.  But  a  demon 
laughed  at  her  tender  conscience ;  deep  in 
hell  they  had  forged  a  terrible  temptation. 
They  knew  the  walls  of  the  citadel  of  mo 
rality,  built  alone  on  natural  virtue  and  un 
aided  by  divine  grace,  would  soon  crumble 
before  their  powerful  machinations.  In 
moments  of  sober  reflection  our  resolu- 


98     Alvtra,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

tions  are  like  prisms  of  basalt,  that  will  not 
be  riven  by  the  lightning,  but  which  in  the 
hour  of  real  trial  prove  to  be  ice-crystals 
that  a  sunbeam  can  dissolve.  The  powers 
that  wage  wa-r  with  frail  humanity  have 
hung  on  the  portals  of  the  infernal  king 
dom,  as  trophies  of  triumph  over  man  and 
insult  to  God,  the  resolutions  of  mortals 
made  in  moments  of  fervor  and  broken  in 
weakness. 

Days  roll  on  ;  they  bring  their  sun 
shine  and  clouds,  but  no  change  in  the 
unhappy  family ;  a  change  there  was  for 
the  worse  in  the  appalling  development 
of  the  infidel  and  socialistic  tendencies  of 
their  impious  father.  His  language,  less 
guarded,  seemed  to  teem  with  new  in 
sults  against  religion  and  God,  and  con 
tributed  to  confirm  the  chill  of  horror  with 
which  he  was  met  by  hapless  children 
that  sighed  over  the  loss  of  filial  love. 
His  late  returns  from  the  lodge,  and  oc 
casionally  those  sad  ebullitions  of  intem 
perance,  continued  to  be  their  deep  afflic 
tion. 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesiivius.     99 

In  proportion  as  love  twines  itself 
around  the  heart  it  absorbs  all  other 
feelings,  it  draws  the  passions  like  lentils 
around  itself;  so  the  contrary  feeling  of 
hatred,  when  permitted  to  enter  the  sanc 
tuary  of  the  heart,  assumes  at  once  a 
tyrannical  sway,  whose  wicked  demands 
of  gratification  become  more  and  more 
imperious  and  exacting  day  by  day,  arid 
rears  a  throne  that  becomes  impregnable 
in  proportion  as  the  sun  is  allowed  to  set 
on  its  possessions.  Even  filial  love  has 
withered  under  the  shadow  of  Cassier's 
worthlessness. 

In  lonely  walks  along  the  lake,  in  con 
versations,  and  in  tears  the  two  girls  la 
mented  their  fate.  The  beauty  of  virtue 
withered  within  their  bosoms.  They  re 
sembled  two  beautiful  flowers  torn  from 
their  bed,  and  cast  with  the  weeds 
of  the  garden  to  taint  in  their  decay  the 
breezes  they  would  sweeten  if  left  on 
their  stem.  They  longed  for  the  plea 
sures  that  pleased  in  the  day  of  pros 
perity  ;  the  dance,  the  banquet,  and  those 


i  oo  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

visits  that  won  the  momentary  gratifica 
tion  of  flattery  and  admiration  were 
sighed  for.  So  irksome  was  the  monotony 
and  so  uncongenial  the  role  forced  upon 
them  by  disguise,  they  hailed  with  joy 
the  least  circumstance  that  might  be  the 
harbinger  of  a  change. 

It  is  at  hand.  Once  more  the  excite 
ment  of  chase  !  The  vigilance  of  their 
astute  father  has  placed  them  again  in 
the  caliche^  and  spirited  horses  are  gal 
loping  from  the  Swiss  capital. 

News  from  Paris  has  arrived  ;  the  fail 
ure,  the  flight,  the  reward,  are  passed 
around  in  a  sensational  romance,  and  the 
disappearance  of  two  police  officers  lends 
the  charms  of  mystery  to  the  embellished 
rumor.  Gassier — the  hero  of  the  tale, 
the  unsuspected  guilty  one — went  around 
and  told  the  news  with  all  the  sancti 
monious  whining  and  eye-uplifting  of 
a  ranting  preacher.  In  the  meantime  he 
matured  his  plans,  and  before  suspicion 
could  point  her  finger  at  him  he  fled  to 
another  retreat  to  elude  for  a  while  the 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    101 

justice  of  man  to  meet  his  awful  doom 
from  the  hands  of  God. 

During  the  night  Gassier  and  his 
children  ascend  the  terrific  pass  of  the 
Tete  Noir  ;  he  proposes  to  hide  from 
the  threatened  storm  in  the  cloister  of 
Martigny.  This  is  a  venerable  Benedic 
tine  monastery,  erected  in  the  eleventh 
century  bv  a  Catholic  prince,  under 
the  sanction  of  Urban  II.,  possessing,  be 
sides  many  other  privileges,  that  of  sanc 
tuary  for  fugitive  prisoners. 

The  dangers  of  the  road  and  the  fear  of 
pursuit  lent  additional  terror  to  the  wild 
mountain  scenery  ;  at  one  moment  they  are 
dizzy  looking  into  awful  chasms  formed  by 
huge  perpendicular  rocks  ;  then  the  over 
hanging  cliffs  would  seem  every  moment 
to  break  from  their  frail  support  and  rush 
down  the  steep  mountain  in  an  avalanche 
of  stone.  In  cold  that  penetrated  to  the 
very  bones,  amidst  the  roar  of  torrents 
leaping  through  caverns  of  ice,  and  in 
dangers  unseen  and  therefore  more  dread 
ful,  they  passed  a  restless  journey  through 


IO2    Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

the  mountains,  and  arrived  at  the  charming 
village  of  Martigny,  over  which  the  monas 
tery  presided  like  the  fortress  of  a  medi 
eval  castle  protecting  the  feudal  territory 
cf  the  petty  ruler.  Wearied,  but  pleased 
at  the  novel  situation  into  which  chance 
had  cast  them,  Charles  and  Henry  ap 
proached  the  venerable  pile  with  feelings 
of  reverence  they  had  never  felt.  The  si 
lence  of  the  tomb  reigned  around,  and  the 
old  gate  was  closed.  Whilst  wondering 
how  men  could  come  voluntarily  to  live  in 
such  a  solitude,  and  how  they  got  the  ne 
cessaries  of  life,  a  bell  tolled  solemnly  from 
one  of  the  towers ;  its  soft,  mellow  tones 
rolled  in  sweet  echoes  across  the  moun 
tains.  Immediately  the  place  became 
thronged  with  men  in  the  habit  of  the 
Benedictine  Order,  hastening  to  and  fro 
to  commence  their  daily  work.  An  aged 
porter  bowed  the  strangers  into  a  neat 
apartment,  and  summoned  the  Superior. 
No  questions  were  asked,  but  comfort 
able  rooms  were  appointed  to  them,  and 
they  were  conducted  in  silence  to  the  re- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    103 

fectory,  where  a  plain  but  substantial 
meal  was  placed  before  them.  Thus  com 
menced  a  visit  the  most  extraordinary  in 
the  records  of  this  venerable  mountain 
cloister. 

Charles  and  Henry  were  charmed  with 
everything,  although  they  found  them 
selves  in  strange  contrast  with  desires  of 
worldly  pleasure  they  had  recently  enter 
tained.  The  wild,  rugged  scenery,  the 
solemn  silence  of  the  house,  and  the  sanc 
tity  of  the  mortified  monks  made  a  deep 
and  solemn  impression  on  the  tender  hearts 
of  the  young  visitors,  who  felt  the  delicacy 
of  their  position  in  enjoying  a  forbidden 
hospitality.  The  example  of  the  evan 
gelical  perfection  practised  by  these  holy 
servants  of  God  insensibly  drew  Charles 
and  Henry  to  love  the  sublime  virtues  they 
practised.  Nothing  impressed  them  more 
than  the  solemn  chant  of  the  Office  at  mid 
night.  The  slow,  solemn  enunciation  of 
each  word  by  a  choir  of  hoary  anchorets 
rolled  in  majestic  cadence  through  the 
precipices  of  the  mountains,  and  diecl 


IO4  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

away  in  the  distant  ravines  in  echoes  of 
heavenly  harmony. 

An  aged  father  was  appointed  to  en 
tertain  the  strangers.  He  led  them  to 
points  on  the  mountain  where  the  view 
was  most  enchanting ;  skilled  in  ancient 
monastic  lore,  he  entertained  them  with 
anecdotes  and  histories  from  which  he  drew 
the  most  instructive  morals.  One  cheerful 
afternoon,  when  seated  on  the  rocks  view 
ing  a  magnificent  sunset,  the  aged  monk 
told  them  his  own  history.  He  had  been 
a  soldier  of  fortune.  In  youth  his  ambition 
was  as  boundless  as  the  horizon  ;  he  wor 
shipped  his  sword  and  loved  the  terrors 
of  battle.  Fortune  smiled  on  his  hopes, 
and  he  moved  on  from  grade  to  grade, 
until  he  became  commander  of  a  division. 

He  was  present  at  the  fatal  field  of  Salz- 
bach,  where  the  great  General  Turenne 
fell  in  the  commencement  of  the  battle. 
The  aged  warrior,  forgetting  the  gravity 
of  his  years  and  his  habit,  would  speak  in 
the  fire  of  other  days,  suiting  his  action  to 
the  word, 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    105 
He    told  his  listeners  the  touching  tale 

o 

of  his  conversion.  The  death  of  the  be 
loved  Turenne,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
demise  of  his  mother,  made  him  enter  se 
riously  into  self,  repeating  the  farewell 
words  of  a  celebrated  courtier  who  left  the 
French  court  to  don  the  habit:  "  Some 
time  of  preparation  should  pass  between 
the  life  of  a  soldier  and  his  grave."  He 
heard  the  great  St.  Vincent  de  Paul  preach 
ing  on  the  vanities  of  life  ;  his  resolutions 
were  confirmed,  and  tears  started  to  his 
eyes  as  he  recounted  how  happy  he  was  in 
his  home  in  the  cliffs  and  the  clouds. 

Charles  loved  to  hear  the  aged  man's 
reminiscences  of  his  military  career.  Fired 
with  chivalrous  aspirations,  she  could  spend 
a  lifetime  in  the  regions  of  fancy  so  fer 
vidly  depicted  from  their  Alpine  retreat. 
Poor  Aloysia  was  attracted  to  the  higher 
and  more  real  glories  of  the  virtuous  lives 
of  those  holy  men.  She  felt  she  could  stay 
with  them  for  ever ;  and  there,  in  the  secre 
cy  of  her  own  heart,  and  before  the  altar  of 
our  Holy  Mother,  she  made  promises  that 


io6  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

shared  in  the.  merits  of  vows.  When  free, 
she  would  give  herself  to  the  love  of  God 
and  the  preparation  for  eternity  in  some 
secluded  retreat  of  religion  and  virginity. 

But  the  nearer  the  altar,  the  further  from 
God.  Reverse  the  picture,  and  another 
scene  must  be  contemplated.  Is  it  the 
venerable  cloister  buried  in  the  snow,  buf 
feted  by  the  storm,  and  threatened  by  the 
avalanche  ?  Is  it  the  awful  death  of  star 
vation  hanging  in  all  its  gloomy  antici 
pations  over  the  community  isolated  by 
the  snow-storm  from  the  civilized  world 
around  ?  Or  will  it  be  the  just  indigna 
tion  of  the  holy  monks  in  finding  the  true 
character  of  the  refugees  whom  they  have 
sheltered  in  ignorance,  contrary  to  the 
canons  of  the  Church  ?  Or  will  the  still 
more  devastating  and  ruthless  storm  of 
religious  persecution  seek  the  sanctuary 
in  the  clouds  to  desecrate  it,  to  scatter 
its  inmates  and  wreck  its  cloisters  ? 

A  calamity  as  thrilling  and  not  less  an 
ticipated  will  fling  a  sad  memory  around 
the  venerable  cloisters  of  Martigny. 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    107 

Gassier  is  in  the  group  listening  to  the 
aged  monk  recount  his  adventures  ;  with 
knitted  eyebrows  he  hears  him  moralizing 
on  the  awful  destiny  of  the  future.  He  is 
a  silent  listener  ;  the  conversation  is  car 
ried  on  by  the  garrulous  and  interested 
youths  and  the  happy,  virtuous  old  monk. 
A  forced  sobriety,  or  the  atmosphere  of 
virtue  which  he  dreads,  has  cast  a  gloom 
over  him.  His  thoughts  are  still  reeking 
with  the  blasphemy  of  the  Masonic  lodges, 
and,  though  restrained  by  politeness  from 
intruding  his  unbelief,  he  expresses  in 
scowls  and  monosyllables  his  dissentient 
feelings. 

Charles  still  burns  with  indignation  at 
her  father's  irreligion  and  personal  ill- 
treatment.  Her  flushed  countenance  and 
agitated  manner  were  at  times  indexes  of 
passion,  revenge,  and  self-love ;  for  a  mo 
ment  the  feeling  is  strong  and  irresistible, 
then  calms  again  with  the  holier  senti 
ments  of  remorse  and  self-condemnation. 

A  morning  as  brilliant  as  ever  lit  up 
the  glaciers  of  Mt.  Blanc  rose  over  the 


lo8  Alvira,    'he  Pferoine  of  Vesuvius. 

cloisters.  Charles  and  Henry  accompany 
their  father  on  a  stroll  through  the  moun- 

o 

tain.  They  miss  their  kind  Mentor,  who 
is  on  a  retreat  for  some  days.  Henry, 
commencing  to  love  solitude,  strays  from 
her  father  and  Charles  to  o-ather  ferns 

o 

and  wild  flowers  creeping  from  the  crevi 
ces  of  the  rocks,  or  rising  with  exquisite 
beauty  from  a  layer  of  snow.  They  are 
emblems  of  her  own  innocence  and  fra 
grant  as  her  virtue,  growing  in  the  wil 
derness  and  shedding  their  charms  on 

o 

rocks  and  snow-peaks,  instead  of  orna 
menting  gardens  of  culture  and  beauty. 
Poor  Aloysia  would  be  more  at  home  in 
some  arbor  of  innocence  where  angels 
love  to  tarry,  and  where  the  voice  and 
gaze  of  the  worldly-minded  have  never 
fallen. 

Cassier  and  Charles  had  slowly  climbed 
to  a  projecting  rock  where  nature  had  made 
a  large  table  covered  with  grass.  On  one 
side  the  ascent  was  easy,  but  the  other 
overhung  a  frightful  precipice.  They  had 
entered  into  an  animated  conversation ; 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    109 

Aloysia,  down  beneath,  could  hear  the 
sharp,  quick  answers  of  Charles,  but,  as 
such  was  usual  in  the  temper  of  Charles, 
she  did  not  notice  it. 

But  lo !  another  moment,  and  a  wild,  shrill 
scream  bade  her  look  up  ;  her  father  was 
no  longer  on  the  ledge  of  rock,  and  Charles 
flung  her  arms  towards  heaven  and  fell  in 
a  swoon  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A    FUNERAL    IN    THE    SNOW. 

WHEN  Charles  had  recovered  her  con 
sciousness,  she  found  herself  reclining 
on  the  lap  of  Henry,  who  had  been 
bathing  her  face  with  snow  and  tears.  A 
long,  painful  call  of  her  name  had  reached 
the  inmost  recess  of  her  beino-  whither  con- 

o 

sciousness  had  repaired.  Springing  to  her 
feet,  startled  as  if  from  a  frightful  dream, 
she  gazed  around.  Memory  and  sight  re 
turned  ;  folding  her  face  in  her  hands,  she 
cried  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief:  "  My  God! 
what  have  I  done  ?  " 

This  was  the  only  intimation  she  ever 
gave  Aloysia  that  in  the  heat  of  passion  she 
had  pushed  her  father  over  the  precipice ; 
she  was  his  murderer.  In  their  conversa 
tion  the  old  man,  more,  perhaps,  through 
no 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius,   ill 

impiety  than  conviction,  misrepresented 
the  good  monks.  We  will  not  reproduce 
the  stereotyped  calumnies  that  even  nowa 
days  unbelievers  love  to  heap  upon  the  re 
ligious  communities  of  the  Catholic  Church. 
The  madness  of  passion  took  control  in  the 
breast  of  Charles.  Scarcely  knowing  what 
she  did,  she  pushed  her  aged  father  towards 
the  precipice  ;  he  slipped,  fell  over  into  the 
chasm,  and  passed  into  eternity  with  blas 
phemy  on  his  guilty  lips. 

The  two  sisters  wept  together  for  hours. 
Innocence,  guilt,  and  retribution  blended 
together  in  a  scene  of  awful  tragedy  amid 
the  glaciers  of  Mt.  Blanc. 

Seldom  in  the  deeds  of  brigandage,  in 
crimes  committed  in  dark  caves  and  lonely 
mountain  paths,  was  there  perpetrated  a 
fouler  murder ;  seldom  in  the  sensational 
records  of  human  depravity  do  we  find  the 
desperado  of  parricidal  guilt  under  the  de 
licate  frame  of  girlhood.  Yet  was  she  ra 
ther  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  aveng 
ing  Heaven  than  a  monster  of  moral  ini 
quity.  At  that  moment  the  cup  of  iniquity 


H2  Alvira^  tJie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 
was  full  for  the  wretch  who  had  lono-  test- 

o 

ed  the  mercy  of  God.  That  Providence 
which  blinded  the  Jews  in  judgment  for 
ingratitude,  and  made  them  the  instru 
ments  for  the  fulfilment  of  eternal  decrees 
of  redemption,  withdrew  from  Alvira  the 
protection  that  made  her,  whilst  she  ac 
cepted  the  guilt,  the  instrument  of  judg 
ment. 

Rising  to  her  feet  with  a  sense  of  her 
desperate  condition,  making  a  few  hurried 
explanations  how  her  father  slipped  and 
lost  his  balance,  she  approached  trembling 
ly  the  fatal  edge.  Leaning  over,  she  saw 
the  corpse  of  her  father  lying  in  a  pool  of 
blood  in  the  deep  chasm  below.  The 
scene  of  that  sad  moment  was  indelibly 
impressed  on  her  memory,  and  in  after- 
hours  of  remorse  haunted  her  with  its 
horrors. 

With  nerve  and  courage,  called  forth  by 
the  awful  circumstances  of  the  moment, 
they  descended  the  mountain  to  the  foot 
of  the  ravine  where  the  body  lay  in  the 
snow. 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    \  \  3 

The  descent  was  steep  and  treacherous, 
and  guilty  conscience  made  Charles  trem 
ble  lest  at  any  moment  she  would  lose  foot 
ing  and  be  precipitated  down  the  dark 
and  gaping  chasms  formed  by  glaciers  and 
rocks.  After  hours  of  toil,  and  with  immi 
nent  peril,  they  found  the  body  of  Gassier. 
A  dark  pallor  had  clouded  his  features,  a 
ghastly  stare,  closed  teeth,  and  a  clenched 
hand  bespoke  the  last  sentiment  of  human 
passion.  Alvira  trembled  and  stood  pow 
erless  for  a  few  moments.  Still,  necessity 
nerved  her  to  action.  She  removed  the 
money  and  valuables  from  the  body  of  her 
father,  and,  in  the  midst  of  wailings  that 
echoed  mournfully  through  the  lonely 
mountain,  they  made  a  grave  in  the  snow. 
Wrapping  him  in  his  cloak,  they  laid  him 
in  a  bank  of  soft  crystals  through  which 
the  blood  had  trickled  in  crimson  streams. 

Thrilling  and  sad  for  Aloysia  and  Alvira 
the  last  moments  of  this  funeral  ceremony. 
Gently  they  placed  the  cold  snow  on  the 
remains  of  iheir  father.  The  wild  eagle 
swooped  around  in  anger,  and  the  wind 


114    Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

swept  with  ominous  sighs  through  deep 
ravines  of  the  rugged  mountain.  The  gi 
gantic  cliff  over  which  Gassier  had  been 
hurled  by  his  maddened  child  frowned 
over  them  in  awful  majesty.  It  would 
be  in  centuries  to  come  the  cenotaph  of 
a  dishonored  tomb.  The  winter  would 
come  again  with  fresh  snow  to  cover  this 
valley  of  death  ;  the  sun  would  pour  its 
cold  rays  on  the  frozen  mound  that  marked 
the  grave  of  Gassier.  No  tear  of  affection 
would  moisten  the  icy  shroud,  but,  in  sym 
pathy  for  the  hapless  child  stained  with 
his  blood,  whose  crime  was  condoned  in 
the  provocation  caused,  the  world  has  cast 
its  abhorrent  curse  on  the  grave  of  the 
reprobate. 

"There  let  every  noxious  thing 
Trail  its  filth  and  fix  its  sting  ; 
In  his  ears  and  eyeballs  tingling, 
With  his  blood  their  poison  mingling, 
Till  beneath  the  solar  fires, 
Rankling  all,  the  curse  expires." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AN    UNWRITTEN    PAGE. 

The  noise  of  life  can  ne'er  so  dull  our  ear, 

Nor  passion's  waves,  though  in  their  wildest  mood, 

That  oft  above  their  surge  we  should  not  hear 
The  solemn  voices  of  the  great  and  good. 

As  oft  in  icicles  a  flower  remaineth 

Unwithered  until  spring  its  buds  unchain, 

The  young  heart  through   life's  change  a  good  re- 

taineth, 
And  will  exhume  its  summer  leaves  again. 

WHEN  Charles  and  Henry  had  breathed 
their  last  sigh  over  the  snowy  mound  that 
covered  the  earthly  remains  of  the  hapless 
Cassier,  they  continued  their  descent  down 
the  mountain.  They  dared  not  go  back  to 
the  cloister  ;  they  fled  when  no  one  pur 
sued,  for  outraged  conscience  is  its  own 
avenger.  Each  stir  in  the  brushwood,  a 
loosened  stone  rolling  quickly  by,  or  the 

115 


I  1 6  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuviiis. 

fluttering-  and  scream  of  startled   birds    of 
the  solitude,   made  them   tremble. 

Night  was  fast  coming  on ;  the  sharp 
peaks  of  the  Tete  Noir  were  dimmed  with 
clouds,  and  frowned  with  ominous  terror  on 
the  path  of  the  terrified  fugitives.  Through 
dangers  of  every  kind,  with  bruises  and 
wounds  all  over  their  delicate  frames,  they 
reached  in  the  night  the  beautiful  village 
of  Chamounix.  Refreshed  with  sleep  and 
food,  they  prepared  themselves  for  their 
future  course,  which  for  a  while  will  be 
perilous,  sensational,  and  extraordinary. 

Free  from  the  control  of  an  intemperate 
and  tyrannical  father,  possessing  immense 
wealth,  they  cast  themselves  into  a  whirl 
pool  of  deceitful  pleasure,  and  for  a  while, 
~;n  yielding  to  the  longings  of  misguided 
t'outh,  hushed  the  qualms  of  conscience, 
ivhich  can  only  rest  in  the  bosom  of  virtue. 
Once  more  free,  the  thought  naturally 

o 

came  of  returning  to  the  dress  that  became 
their  sex.  Aloysia,  whose  sense  of  delicacy 
was  still  as  tender  as  the  sensitive  plant 
yielding  to  human  touch,  pleaded  in  tears 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    117 

for  a  return  to  the  simple  ways  of  girlhood, 
to  the  life  and  society  more  congenial  to 
their  habits  and  more  in  keeping  with  the 
laws  of  God  and  of  nature.  Alvira  had 
yielded  for  a  moment.  But  the  love  of 
travel,  which  in  those  days  could  not  be 
gratified  in  their  true  condition  of  young 
and  handsome  girls  without  guardians, 
whilst  in  their  male  disguise  not  a  shadow 
of  suspicion  or  impropriety  would  interfere 
with  them  ;  the  novelty  of  their  condition, 
assuming  each  day  some  new  attractions  ; 
the  curiosity  innate  in  the  feminine  breast 
to  hear  and  see  things  outside  her  own  cir 
cle  ;  above  all  the  hallucinations  flung  on 
the  path  of  disguise  by  the  fiend  of  evil, 
who  thus  intrigued  for  the  final  ruin  of  his 

o 

unsuspecting  victims,  made  them  agree 
mutually  to  pass  a  short  time  in  travelling 
around  as  naval  cadets  ;  then,  tired  and 
surfeited  with  their  triumph  over  nature, 
they  hoped  to  retire  into  the  sphere  of 
utility  destined  for  them  by  Providence. 

But,  to  our  own  and  to  our  readers'  re 
gret,  we  must  pause  in  our  biography.     The 


1 1 8  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius, 

sources  from  which  we  cull  these  interest 
ing  details  have  cast  historic  silence  over 
our  heroines'  ramblings  of  three  years. 
What  a  volume  of  sensation  they  suggest ! 
Were  we  given  to  the  doubtful  utility  of 
fictional  biography,  were  we  weak  enough 
to  enrich  ourselves  by  pandering  to  the 
morbid  and  often  depraved  longings  of 
modern  literary  taste,  we  might  fill  a  cou 
ple  of  volumes  with  scenes  of  excitement, 
of  "  hair-breadth  'scapes,"  and  the  heart- 
palpitating  suspenses  of  misplaced  love. 
We  could  not  draw  a  picture  more 
interesting  or  strange  than  those  two 
sweet  maidens  in  their  disguise.  We 
see  them  in  the  salons  of  the  wealthy, 
in  the  clubs  of  the  politicians,  and  at 
the  billiard-tables  of  giddy  youth  who 
little  dream  of  the  intrusion,  which,  if  they 
understood,  would  make  them  more  happy. 
We  fancy  we  see  those  youths,  so  polish 
ed,  so  gay,  and  withal  so  handsome,  the 
idols  of  the  society  they  move  in  ;  we  hear 
compliments  about  those  delicate  hands, 
those  small  feet,  those  charming  eyes. 


Alvira,  the   Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    119 

Our  sympathy  would  chronicle  the  sad 
fate  of  many  an  unsuspecting  maiden  who 
loved  and  pined  in  the  dream  of  secret  love 
towards  the  young  officers  that  had  crossed 
their  path,  whilst  they  revelled  in  cruel  de 
light  in  their  triumph  over  their  own  frail, 
tender-hearted  sex.  Our  tale  might  un 
ravel  the  plottings  of  hopeful  mothers  who 
vainly  plied  the  utmost  worldly  ingenuity 
to  gain  for  their  daughters  already  passed 
the  meridian  of  youth  such  promising  and 
charming  husbands.  What  skill  it  would 
demand  to  describe  the  chagrin  of  those 
old  and  young  ladies,  if  they  discovered 
the  fraud  which  so  heartlessly  trifled  with 
the  sacred  feeling  of  love  ! 

We  will  not  tarry  over  imaginary  in 
cidents  whilst  terrible  and  thrilling  scenes 
are  before  us.  The  record  of  those  ex 
traordinary  maidens  is  only  now  com 
mencing  in  all  its  romantic  attraction.  It 
is  not  the  vicissitudes  of  an  erring  life  that 
inspire  our  pen  in  this  brief  sketch,  but 
the  merciful  designs  of  Providence  in  fol 
lowing  and  wresting  from  perdition  a  noble 


1 20  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

soul,  endeared  to  heaven  by  the  prayers 
of  a  repentant  mother,  by  the  sighs  of  a 
saintly  religious,  and  by  its  own  love  for 
the  immaculate  Queen  of  Heaven. 

Alvira  opens  her  soul  to  the  impulses 
of  grace,  but  in  dangerous  and  guilty  pro 
crastination  she  passes  through  some  start 
ling  vicissitudes  before  the  Almighty,  im 
patient  as  it  were  for  her  love,  draws  her 
to  him  by  one  of  the  most  touching  mira 
cles  recorded  in  the  wonders -of  hagiology. 
We  will  hurry  on  to  those  events,  which 
will  warm  our  hearts  with  love  towards 
God,  and  make  us  look  up  with  a  deep 
feeling  of  awe  towards  that  "  mercy  which 
is  above  all  his  works." 

Three  years  of  strange  vicissitude  rolled 
over  the  career  of  our  heroines.  Some 
thousands  of  pounds  gilded  the  path  they 
passed  over.  With  all  the  recklessness 
of  youth,  they  squandered  their  ill-gotten 
money.  Many  a  poor  ruined  family  eked 
out  a  miserable  existence,  whilst  their 
gold,  entrusted  to  the  wretched  banker 
who  had  gone  to  his  account,  was  flung 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    121 

recklessly  on  the  tables  of  chance  by  the 
children  he  had  nursed  in  the  school  of 
iniquity.  Like  sand  passing  through  the 
fingers,  like  corn  through  the  perforated 
sack,  their  thousands  dwindled  away,  giv 
ing  place  to  the  bitter  hour  of  retaliation, 
of  punishment,  which  will  yet  come  for 
those  hapless  children  of  folly. 

It  did  not  please  Almighty  God  to  hurry 
them  to  a  dreadful  judgment  by  sudden 
or  awful  death.  He  has  other  and  even 
keener  pangs  than  those  of  death,  but 
they  come  rather  from  the  hand  of  mercy 
than  of  justice.  They  are  the  pangs  of 
remorse,  which  tear  the  heart  of  their  vic 
tims  with  agonizing  stings  that  are  known 
only  in  the  deep  secrets  of  the  soul.  A 
dark  and  secret  hour  of  retribution  is  at 
hand  for  Charles ;  the  heavy  but  merciful 
hand  of  Gcd  will  touch  her,  although  she 
will  still  follow  the  mad  career  of  her  hypo 
crisy  and  the  wild  dreams  of  her  ambition. 

Alvira,  still  in  her  disguise  of  Charles, 
endeavored  to  forget  the  crimes  she  com 
mitted  in  the  dissipation  in  which  she  in- 


122  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

dulged.  Whilst  wealth  and  friends  were 
around  she  feigned  a  gay  heart  and  flat 
tered  herself  she  was  not  so  bad.  She 
involuntarily  blushed  at  rude  remarks  made 
by  gentlemen  amongst  whom  she  passed 
as  a  companion,  and  in  the  unsullied  inno 
cence  of  her  sister  she  found  a  guardian 
for  herself.  They  invariably  shunned 
low  society,  and  thus  they  won  the 
esteem  of  all ;  they  passed  as  young 
men  of  virtue  as  well  as  of  beauty  and 
of  grace.  The  immorality  that  dishonored 
the  manhood  around  them,  the  indecency 
of  the  conversations  they  heard,  and  the 
open  and  blasphemous  impiety  that  often 
thrilled  their  dove-like  hearts,  made  them 
form  a  pleasing  contrast  with  themselves 
and  the  corrupted  society  they  had  now 
known  to  the  core;  yet,  "Say  not  I  have 
sinned,  and  what  evil  hath  befallen  me." 
Who  can  flee  from  the  eye  of  God  ? 
There's  a  sting  in  the  conviction  ot  guilt 
that  will  follow  its  victim  through  the  ball 
room,  the  mountajn  cave,  or  the  cloister,  to 
the  very  side  ot  the  bed  of  death. 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    123 

It  was  when  Charles  and  Henry  found 
their  money  nearly  gone,  and  the  prospect 
of  poverty  before  them,  they  felt  in  all  its 
painful  anticipations  the  prospect  of  a 
gloomy  and  unknown  future.  There  is  no 
pang,  perhaps,  in  nature  so  keen  as  that 
which  pierces  the  rich  and  ambitious  when 
certain  poverty  stares  them  in  the  face ; 
perhaps  'tis  shame,  perhaps  'tis  pride,  per 
haps  'tis  the  despair  that  arises  from  the 
shock  of  blasted  hopes — or  all  together — 
that  weigh  on  the  sinking  heart,  and  make 
each  vital  throb  like  the  last  heavy  thud  ot 
death.  Then  suicide  has  a  charm  y.nd  self- 
destruction  a  temptation.  Many  a  turbu 
lent  wave  has  closed  the  career  of  the  beg 
gared  spendthrift  and  the  thwarted  man  ot 
ambition. 

Charles  commenced  now  to  suffer  in  an 
ticipation  all  the  pangs  of  coming  shame, 
poverty,  and  humiliation.  With  remorse 
'returned  the  virtuous  impressions  of  child 
hood,  instilled  into  her  tender  mind  by  her' 
penitent  mother.  She  longed  to  return  to 
the  circle  nature  had  destined  for  her,  but 


124  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

which  seemed  more  difficult  now  than  to 
commence  a  new  disguise.  Although  she 
yielded  in  all  virliu  us  ivnpulses  to  that 
"  procrastination  which  is  the  thief  of  time," 
yet  in  her  after-career  there  was  a  wonder 
ful  combination  of  events,  extraordinary 
and  interesting,  which  prove  a  loving  and 
forgiving  Providence  hearing  the  prayer 
of  a  penitent  mother.  But  we  must  raise 
the  curtain  and  proceed  with  the  drama  of 
sacred  romance  whose  first  acts  have  given 
so  much  interest  and  sympathy. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

IN    UNIFORM. 

IT  was  a  bright  morning  in  November, 
in  the  year  1684.  The  people  of  Milan 
were  all  flocking  to  the  cathedral.  It  was 
the  feast  of  the  great  St.  Charles.  The 
magnificent  Duomo  which  now  covers  the 
shrine  of  this  great  saint  was  not  in  exist 
ence  then  ;  nevertheless,  the  devotion  of  the 
people  towards  their  apostle  and  patron 
was  deep  and  sincere.  Perhaps  in  no  city 
in  Italy  is  there  greater  pomp  thrown 
around  the  patron's  festival  than  at  Milan. 
From  morning  to  night  thousands  gather 
around  that  venerated  shrine.  The  prince 
with  his  liveried  servants,  and  the  poor  pea 
sant  with  the  snow-white  handkerchief  tied 
on  her  head,  kneel  there  side  by  side. 
From  the  first  anniversary  of  the  great 
saint's  death  to  the  present  clay  the  musi- 

135 


126    Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

cal  services  of  the  cathedral  have  been 
rendered  by  the  greatest  talent  in  Italy, 
Professionals  and  amateurs  flocked  from 
every  side  to  do  honor  to  the  man  who 
did  so  much  honor  to  the  city  of  Milan. 
Nowadays,  since  science  has  shortened  dis 
tance,  it  is  one  of  the  autumnal  amuse 
ments  of  the  wealthy  Englishman  to  be 
present  at  the  Feast  of  St.  Charles  at  Mi 
lan.  The  gorgeous  Duomo,  hewn,  as  it 
were,  out  of  Carrara  marble,  covered  with 
five  thousand  statues  and  pinnacles,  illu 
mined  with  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
lights  swinging  in  the  lofty  aisles  in  chan 
deliers  of  sparkling  crystal ;  the  majestic 
organs,  accompanied  in  musical  harmony 
by  hundreds  of  the  best  of  human  voices, 
rolling  in  soul-stirring  majesty  over  the 
heads  of  tens  of  thousands  of  the  kneeling 
children  of  the  saint — all  leave  an  impres 
sion  never  to  be  forgotten.  Although  in 
modern  days  the  city  of  Milan  has  nur 
tured  in  her  bosom  some  of  the  firebrands 
of  Italian  revolution,  yet  the  city  honored 
with  the  names  and  relics  of  Ambrose, 


A  hira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    127 

Augustine,  and  Charles  has  yet  thou 
sands  of  pious  and  holy  souls,  who  still 
gather  with  filial  devotion  around  the 
tombs  of  the  sainted  dead. 

On  the  morning  of  the  festival  of  St. 
Charles  our  heroine  awoke  with  a  heavy 
heart.  She  knew  the  city  was  astir  and 
repairing  to  the  cathedral.  How  strange 
she  should  have  chosen  the  name  of 
Charles !  How  great,  how  holy  every 
thing  connected  with  that  name  !  Could 
the  man  of  God  who  made  it  so  vener 
able  to  his  people  meet  the  wretch  who 
had  assumed  it  to  dishonor  it  ?  Could 
even  the  pious  people  who  flocked  to  the 
cathedral  know  there  was  amongst  them 
a  Charles  whose  hands  were  stained  with 
parricidal  guilt  ?  Like  the  wicked  man 
who  fleeth  when  no  man  pursueth,  Charles 
trembled  lest  the  indignation  of  the  people, 
of  the  saint,  and  of  God  should  crush  her 
in  punishment  of  her  sins. 

With  thoughts  like  these  she  en-tered  the 

o 

cathedral.  Henry  was  by  her  side.  The 
Pontifical  High  Mass  had  commenced, 


128  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

and  the  organ  rolled  its  majestic  tones 
through  the  aisles  of  the  old  church.  Im 
mense  crowds  had  already  gathered  around 
the  tomb,  and  Charles  and  Henry  re 
paired  to  a  quiet  and  obscure  portion  of 
the  building,  where  they  could  observe 
without  being  observed. 

Some  years  had  now  passed  since 
Charles  had  breathed  a  prayer.  There 
was  something  in  everything  around  her 
that  softened  her  heart ;  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  wept.  An  eloquent 
panegyric  was  preached  by  a  Dominican 
Father.  The  peroration  was  an  appeal  to 
the  assembled  thousands  to  kneel  and  im 
plore  the  blessing  of  the  saint  on  the  city 
and  on  themselves.  Few  sent  a  more 
fervent  appeal  than  the  poor,  sinful  girls 
who  shunned  the  gaze  of  the  crowd.  The 
prayer  of  Charles  was  heard,  and  God, 
who  works  wonders  in  the  least  of  his 
works,  brought  about  the  conversion  of 
this  child  of  predestination  in  a  manner 
as  strange  as  it.  is  interesting. 

The    crowd    have    left    the     cathedral. 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    129 
The  lights  are  extinguished.      The  service 

o  o 

is  over.  Charles  and  Henry  were  amongst 
the  last  to  leave.  On  coming  into  the 
great  square  before  the  church  they  were 
surprised  to  see  large  groups  of  men  in 
deep  conversation.  Their  excited  and  ani 
mated  manner  showed  at  once  something1 

o 

strange  had  happened.  Men  of  strange 
dress  appeared  also  in  the  crowd.  Charles 
enquired  what  was  the  matter,  and  was 
informed  that  word  had  just  come  that 
Charles  II.  of  Spain  had  declared  war 
with  Naples,  and,  as  the  state  of  Milan 
was  subsidiary  to  the  kingdom  of  the 
latter,  he  had  sent  officers  to  cause  an 
enrolment  of  troops.  Large  inducements 
were  offered  to  all  who  would  join,  and 
numbers  of  the  youth  of  the  city  had  al 
ready  given  in  their  names. 

Charles  scarcely  hesitated  in  coming  to 
a  conclusion.  The  reduced  state  of  their 
circumstances,  the  perfection  of  her  dis 
guise,  and  the  still  unconquered  ambition 
of  her  heart  made  the  circumstance  a 
change  of  golden  hope  in  the  sinking 


130  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

prospects  of  her  career.  One  thought 
alone  deterred  her.  Could  the  delicate 
frame  and  soul  of  her  little  sister  bear  the 
hardships  of  a  soldier's  life  ?  She  breathed 
her  thoughts  to  Henry.  The  latter  cried 
and  trembled.  The  one  and  only  scene  of 
blood  she  had  witnessed  still  haunted  her 
soul  with  horror — 'twas  in  the  ravine  near 
Chamounix.  But  Charles  still  urged  on 
the  necessity  of  some  desperate  movement, 
and  persuaded  her,  if  they  succeeded  in 
joining  this  new  service  as  officers,  their 
position  would  be  much  the  same  as  that 
they  had  passed  through  during  the  last 
two  years.  Poor  Henry  had  but  one  tie 
to  live  for  in  the  world ;  she  preferred 
death  to  separation  from  her  sister,  and  in 
the  bravery  of  sisterly  affection  she  told 
Charles  she  would  swim  by  her  side  in 
the  river  of  blcod  she  might  cause  to 
flow. 

The  next  morning  found  them  enrolled 
as  officers  in  the  army  of  the  King  of 
Naples. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

REMORSE. 

They  call'd  her  cold  and  proud, 

Because  her  lip  and  brow 
Amid  the  mirthful  crowd 

No  kindred  mirth  avowed  ; 
Alas  !  nor  look  nor  language  e'er  reveal 
How  much  the  sad  can  love,  the  lonely  feel. 

The  peopled  earth  appears 

A  dreary  desert  wide  ; 
Her  gloominess  and  tears 

The  stern  and  gay  deride. 

O  God  !  life's  heartless  mockeries  who  can  bear 
When  grief  is  dumb  and  deep  thought  brings  despair  ? 

DURING  the  terrible  storm  that  passed 
over  the  Church  at  the  commencement  of 
the  third  century,  we  have  a  thrilling  inci 
dent  which  shows  the  terror  and  remorse 
of  the  pagan  emperors  when  they  returned 
to  their  golden  house  after  witnessing  the 
execution  of  their  martyred  victims. 

Diocletian,  being  enraged  with  Adrian, 

131 


132   Alvira,  tJie  Heroine  of  ]7esuviiis. 

the  governor  of  Antinoe — who,  from  being 
an  ardent  persecutor  of  the  Church,  had  be 
come  a  fervent  follower  of  Christ — caused 
him  to  be  draped  to  Nicomedia.  where, 

o  o 

seized  with  implacable  rage  at  the  sight 
of  the  constancy  of  the  martyr,  who  had 
once  been  his  friend  and  confidant,  he  or 
dered  him  to  be  thrown,  chained  hand  and 
foot,  at  the  decline  of  clay,  into  a  deep  pit, 
which  was  filled  with  earth  and  stones  be 
fore  the  emperor's  eyes.  When  the  last 
cry  of  the  victim  had  been  stifled  under  the 
accumulated  earth,  the  emperor  stamped 
on  it  with  his  feet  and  cried  out  in  a  tone  of 
defiance:  "  Now,  Adrian,  if  thy  Christ  loves 
thee,  let  him  show  it." 

He  then  quitted  the  field  of  punishment, 
but  felt  himself  so  overpowered  by  such 
an  extraordinary7  feeling  that  he  knew  not 

*  o 

whether  it  was  the  termination  of  his  pas 
sion  or  the  commencement  of  his  remorse. 
His  Thessalian  courtiers  bore  him  rapidly 
away  from  the  accursed  spot.  Night  fell ; 
Diocletian,  agitated  and  restless,  prepared 
to  retire  to  rest,  for  his  head  was  burning. 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    133 

He  entered  his  chamber,  which  was  hung 
around  with  purple,  but  the  walls  of  which 
now  seemed  to  distil  blood.  He  advanced 
a  few  steps,  when,  lo  !  a  corpse  appeared  to 
rise  slowly  on  his  golden  couch ;  his  bed 
was  occupied  by  a  spectre,  and  near  the 
costly  lamp,  which  shed  a  pale  light  round 
the  chamber,  the  chains  of  the  martyr 
seemed  to  descend  from  the  ceiling.  Dio 
cletian  uttered  a  cry  that  might  have  pene 
trated  the  grave.  His  guards  ran  in,  but 
instantly  grew  pale,  drew  back,  and,  point 
ing  to  the  object  which  caused  an  icy 
sweat  to  cover  the  imperial  brow,  they 
said  with  horror  to  each  other :  "  IT  is  THE 
CHRISTIAN." 

Thus  a  guilty  conscience  summons  ima 
ginary  terrors  around  it.  Cain  fled  when 
no  one  pursued.  Nero  heard  invisible 
trumpets  ringing  his  death-knell  around 
the  tomb  of  his  mother.  How  often  has 
the  mountain  bandit,  whose  hand  trembled 
not  at  murder,  shuddered  with  fear,  as  he 
hastened  through  the  forest,  at  the  sound 
of  a  branch  waving  in  the  wind,  or  felt  his 


134  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

hair  stand  erect  with  terror  on  behold 
ing  a  distant  bush  fantastically  enlightened 
by  the  moon  !  Conscience  has  made  cow 
ards  of  the  most  sanguinary  freeboot 
ers  and  the  most  shameless  oppressors. 
The  dreadful  "  worm  that  dieth  not,"  and 
banishes  every  cheerful  thought  from  the 
guilty  soul,  is  not  inaptly  compared  to 
the  wretch  we  read  of  in  the  anna-Is  of 
Eastern  crime,  condemned  to  carry  about 
with  him  the  dead  and  decomposing  body 
of  his  murdered  victim. 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  Charles  es 
caped  the  agonies  of  a  guilty  conscience. 
From  the  moment  she  left  the  church  in 
Milan  the  usual  and  dreadful  struggle  be 
tween  shame  and  grace,  humility  and  pride, 
commenced  in  her  heart.  Although  now 
and  then  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of 
the  extraordinary  disguise  she  had  assum 
ed,  nevertheless  the  feeling  of  remorse 
dampened  every  pleasure,  and  added  to 
the  disguise  of  her  person  another  dis 
guise  of  false  joy  to  her  countenance. 
This  reaction  caused  an  important  feature 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius,    135 

in  the  life  of  Alvira  during  her  stay  in  the 
beautiful  town  of  Messina,  whither  we  must 
ask  our  reader  to  follow  our  heroines  to 
commence  in  their  military  career  the  most 
interesting  part  of  this  historical  romance. 
The  Milanese  recruits  were  busily  en 
gaged  in  going  through  military  instruc 
tion,  when  orders  were  received  that  the 
division  should  sail  immediately  for  Mes 
sina.  There  are  few  acquainted  with  the 
military  life  who  do  not  know  how  disagree 
able  are  orders  to  move.  The  bustle,  the 
packing,  the  breaking  up  of  associations, 
and  the  inevitable  want  of  comfort  in  the 
military  march  try  the  courage  of  the 
brave  man  more  than  the  din  of  battle,  and 
robs  the  military  career  of  much  of  its 
boasted  enthusiasm.  The  stalwart  son  of 
Mars,  who  forgets  there  are  such  things 
as  danger  and  fatigue  in  the  exciting  hour 
of  battle,  will  grumble  his  discontent  at  the 
inconveniences  of  the  hour  of  peace.  We 
will  leave  it  to  the  imagination  of  the  read 
er  to  conceive  the  feelings,  the  regrets  and 
misgivings,  of  our  young  heroines  as  their1 


136  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

little  vessel  set  sail  from  the  town  of  Spez- 
zia  for  the  fortress  of  Messina.  Although 
their  biographers  say  nothing  of  their  voy 
age,  we  cannot  but  imagine  it  was  an  un 
pleasant  one.  Although  the  blue  head 
lands  of  the  Italian  coast,  and  the  snow-cap 
ped  Apennines  in  the  distance,  supplied 
the  place  of  the  compass,  and  their  calls  at 
the  different  ports  deprived  their  journey 
of  the  painful  monotony  of  a  long  sea-voy 
age,  yet  the  associations,  the  cloud  that 
hung  over  their  thoughts,  embittered  every 
source  of  pleasure. 

Arrived  at  Messina,  Charles  and  Henry 
were  quartered  in  the  old  fortress.  It  was 
an  antiquated,  quadrangular  edifice,  perch 
ed  high  up  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  looking 
down  on  beautiful  white  houses  built  one 
over  the  other,  and  descending  in  terraces 
to  the  sea.  Its  old  walls  were  dilapidated 
and  disco'ored  by  the  touch  of  time,  and 
threatened  every  minute,  as  it  afterwards 
did  in  the  earthquake  of  1769,  to  com 
mence  the  awful  avalanche  of  destruction 
that  swept  this  fair  city  into  the  sea, 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    1 3  '/- 

The  first  glimpse  of  their  barracks  did 
not  rouse  in  Henry  any  ejaculations  of 
gladness.  The  old  Castello,  as  the  people 
called  it,  ill-agreed  with  the  noble  edifices 
she  was  wont  to  call  castles  in  her  earlier 
days — no  lofty  battlements  crested  with 
clouds  ;  no  drawbridges  swung  on  pon 
derous  chains;  no  mysterious  keeps  haunt 
ed  with  traditionary  horrors  ;  no  myriads 
of  archers  in  gold  and  blue  to  rend  the 
heavens  with  a  mighty  shout  of  welcome. 
Alvira's  dream  of  military  glory  was  a 
veritable  castle  in  the  air  in  the  presence 
of  the  ruinous,  ill  kept,  and  dilapidated 
fortress  they  had  come  to  reinforce. 

Everything  around  seemed  to  increase 
the  gloom  that  hung  over  Charles's  heart. 
The  ill-clad  and  poverty-stricken  people, 
squatting  in  idleness  and  dirt  in  the 
streets  ;  the  miserable  shops  ;  the  do  Ice  far 
niente  so  conspicuously  characteristic  of  Ita 
lian  towns,  were  contrasted  with  the  beau 
tiful  and  busy  capitals  Charles  and  Henry 
had  come  from.  But  nowhere  was  this  con 
trast  so  keen  as  in  their  domestic  arrange-.- 


138   Alvira,  ike  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

ments.  The  bleak  apartments,  the  camp- 
bed,  the  iron  washstand,  and  the  rough 
cuisine  contrasted  sadly  with  the  magnifi 
cence  of  their  father's  splendid  mansion  in 
Paris.  No  wonder  our  young  heroines 
wept  when  alone  over  the  memories  of  the 
past. 

Charles  and  Henry  kept  together  ;  they 
avoided  all  society  ;  they  loved  to  ramble 
along  the  beautiful  beach  that  ran  for  some 
miles  on  the  north  side  of  the  town,  and 
there,  in  floods  of  tears,  seek  relief  for 
their  broken  hearts.  Oh  !  how  memory 
will  on  these  occasions  wake  up  the  happ^ 
past  lost  and  gone,  and  the  wicked  past 
yet  to  be  atoned  for.  What  heart  weight 
ed  with  the  agony  of  remorse  will  not  feel 
the  sting  of  guilt  more  keen  in  the  re 
membrance  of  the  blissful  days  of  inno 
cence  and  childhood?  Many  a  blue  wave 
has  wrapt  in  its  icy  shroud  the  child  of 
misfortune  who  was  unable  to  bear  the 
shame  and  reproof  of  her  own  conscience. 
It  was  in  the  recollection  of  virtuous 
childhood  that  Charles  and  Henry  felt 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    139 

their  greatest  sorrows.  Every  tender  ad 
monition  of  their  dying  mother  ;  the  in 
struction  of  the  aged  abbe  who  prepared 
them  for  their  first  confession  and  com 
munion  ;  and  the  piety  and  noble  exam 
ple  of  their  little  brother,  Louis  Marie, 
who  had  fled  in  his  childhood  from  the 
world  they  now  hated,  were  subjects  often 
brought  up  in  their  lonely  rambles. 

At  night  Charles  would  often  awake 
with  frightful  dreams.  The  cold,  blood 
stained  face  of  her  murdered  father  would 
come  in  awful  proximity  to  her.  Her 
screams  would  bringr  ner  fellow-officers 

O 

to  her  assistance,  but  they  knew  not  the 
cause  of  her  terror.  The  young  officers 
had  the  sympathy  of  the  whole  garri 
son  ;  even  the  people  who  saw  them  re 
turn  from  their  evening  walk  remarked 
them  to  be  lonely  and  sad,  and  their 
eyes  often  red  from  crying. 

Three  long  and  miserable  months  were 
thus  passed  by  our  heroines  at  Messina. 
They  were  now  as  skilful  in  their  mili 
tary  exercises  as  they  were  in  their  dis- 


140  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

guise.  But  wearied  of  the  military  life, 
and  longing  to  return  to  the  society  of 
their  sex,  they  had  determined  to  leave, 
to  declare  who  they  were,  and  endeavor, 
by  some  means,  to  get  back  to  France. 
Whilst  deliberating  on  this  movement  an 
incident  occurred  which  changed  their 
plans  and  cast  them  again  into  an  ex 
traordinary  circle  of  vicissitudes. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

NAPLES. 

WHILST  Charles  and  Henry  were  one 
evening  walking  along  the  beautiful  beach 
they  saw  a  ship  nearing  the  land.  A 
strong  breeze  was  blowing  at  the  time, 
and  whilst  they  paused  to  admire  the 
noble  bark,  all  sails  set,  ploughing  the 
crested  billows,  and  floating  over  them 
like  an  enormous  sea-gull,  she  came  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  young  officers.  An 
other  minute  the  sails  were  lowered  and 
anchor  was  cast.  A  small  boat  was  de 
spatched  from  the  ship,  and  made  for  the 
beach  just  where  Charles  and  Henry 
were  standing.  They  formed  a  thousand 
conjectures  of  the  meaning  of  this  move 
ment.  When  the  boat  came  near  the 
land,  a  tall  young  man,  dressed  in  the 


142  A Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

uniform  of  the  Neapolitan  service,  leaped 
on  shore  and  advanced  towards  the  young 
officers. 

A  few  words  of  recognition  passed.  He 
was  a  lieutenant  in  the  -Neapolitan  army, 
sent  with  despatches  for  the  commandant 
of  the  garrison  of  Messina  to  send  two 
or  three  companies  of  the  newly-enrolled 
troops  to  the  capital. 

On  the  way  to  the  garriscn  he  inform 
ed  Charles  and  Henry  that  the  war  was 
nearly  at  an  end,  but  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  disturbance  and  sedition  in  the 
city  of  Naples,  and  that  the  garrison  there 
had  to  be  doubled.  The  object  in  anchor 
ing  the  ship  on  the  coast  was  for  fear  the 
garrison  of  Messina  might  have  been  sur 
prised  and  taken  by  the  Carlists.  Having 
assured  himself  all  was  safe,  he  entered 
the  citadel  with  the  young  officers,  and 
was  presented  to  the  captain,  to  whom  he 
handed  his  despatches  from  headquarters. 

The  next  evening  found  Henry  and 
Charles,  with  two  hundred  men,  on  board 
the  ship  that  had  anchored  on  the  coast 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    143 

the  day  before.  The  excitement  and 
bustle  of  departure  had  silenced  for 
a  while  all  feelings  of  remorse,  and  the 
old  passions  that  reigned  in  the  soul  of 
Charles  rose  again  from  their  dormant 
state.  Her  eye  flashed  with  life  and 
her  lips  quivered  with  joy ;  there  was 
still  within  her  grasp  the  chance  of  fame. 
Ambition  fanned  the  dying  embers  of 
decaying  hope,  and  every  pious  resolve 
was  thrown  aside  until  the  course  of 
events  would  realize  or  blast  her  new 
dream  of  greatness. 

A  few  days  brought  them  in  sight  of 
the  beautiful  capital  of  the  south  of  Italy. 
The  modern  aphorism,  "  See  Naples  and 
then  die,"  was  said  in  other  words  in  old 
times,  when  the  Caesars  and  Senators  of 
the  empire  enriched  its  beautiful  shores 
with  superb  villas.  There  is  not  in  Eu 
rope  a  bluer  sky  and,  true  in  its  reflec 
tion  of  the  azure  firmament,  a  bluer  sea 
than  around  Naples.  The  coast  undulates 
to  the  sea  in  verdant  slopes,  which  in 
autumn  have  a  rich  golden  hue  from  the 


144  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

yellow  tinge  of  the  vine-leaf.  Its  classic 
fame  casts  a  halo  around  its  charms  ;  its 
history  in  the  far  past,  its  terrible  moun 
tain  and  periodical  convulsions  from  the 
burning  womb  of  the  earth,  render  it  an 
object  of  attraction  to  all  classes. 

Charles  and  Henry  were  quite  alive  to 
the  impressions  felt  by  tourists  when, 
whirled  along  by  the  panting  steam-horse 
through  the  luxuriant  Campo  Felice,  they 
see  for  the  first  time  the  column  of 
murky  smoke  that  rises  to  the  clouds 
over  the  terrible  Vesuvius.  The  old 
mountain  was  then,  as  it  is  now,  the 
terror  and  the  attraction  ot  tourists. 
The  catastrophes  it  has  caused,  the  cities 
it  has  swallowed  up  in  molten  ashes, 
the  thunder  of  its  roar  when  roused  from 
its  sleep,  and  the  unhealthy,  sulphurous 
vapors  ever  vomited  from  its  cone,  render 
it  a  veritable  giant  that  the  human  race 
loves  to  see  at  a  distance. 

Our  heroines  were  already  acquainted 
with  the  "Light-house  of  the  Mediterrane 
an,"  and  from  afar  the  lofty  and  ever-blaz- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius,    145 

ing,  active  Etna ;  hence  Vesuvius  was  not 
so  attractive  as  a  volcano  as  in  the  halo  of 
classic  lore  that  hung  around  it.  At  a  dis 
tance  the  mountain  seems  to  be  harmless, 
the  blue  outline  of  the  lofty  cone  terminat 
ing  in  a  dense  bank  of  smoke,  like  storm- 
clouds  gathering  around  the  snowy  peaks 
of  the  distant  Apennines  ;  but  when  the 
adventurous  tourist  wishes  to  approach 
nearer  to  its  blazing  crater,  and  toils  up  its 
torn  and  blackened  sides,  he  will  see  in  the 
immense  chasms  and  rents  traces  of  mighty 
convulsions.  Deep  rivers  of  molten  lava 
that  take  twenty  and  thirty  years  to  cool ; 
the  quantity  of  ashes  and  cinders  that 
could  change  the  whole  face  of  a  country 
and  bury  five  cities  in  a  few  hours,  must 
tell  of  the  enormous  furnace  raging  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  of  which  Vesuvius  is 
but  its  chimney. 

Strange,  Charles  longed  to  see  Vesuvius 

o     '  o 

when  but  a  tender  girl  in  Paris.  She  little 
thought  the  extraordinarv  course  of  human 

o  » 

events  would  bring  her,  not  only  under 
the  shadow  of  the  terrible  mountain  it- 


146  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

self,  but  send  her  through  a  most  thrill 
ing  scene  on  its  barren  slopes.  Let  us 
hasten  on  to  the  course  of  events  that  ren 
dered  the  extraordinary  life  of  this  girl  so 
romantic. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ENGAGEMENT    WITH    BRIGANDS. 

ARRIVED  in  Naples,  our  heroines  were 
quartered  in  the  Molo.  This  is  an  old 
fortress  still  used  as  a  barrack  in  Naples. 
Its  massive,  quadrangular  walls  were  erect 
ed  in  the  middle  ages,  and  have  withstood 
many  a  desperate  siege  in  the  civil  wars 
of  Italy. 

The  detachment  from  the  Messina  garri 
son  f  jund  the  city  in  a  state  of  disturbance 
and  confusion.  Armed  troops  paraded  the 
streets,  houses  were  burning  on  every  side, 
and  bands  of  revolutionists  were  running 
frantically  to  and  fro  through  the  streets, 
yelling  in  the  most  unearthly  tones  their 
whoops  of  political  antagonism  to  the 
Government ;  yet  it  was  evident  the  Go 
vernment  had  the  upper  hand,  and  the 
mob  was  gradually  dispersing  ;  they  fled 


148    Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

from  the  city,  and  order  was  restored. 
In  the  meantime  word  was  received  in 
Naples  that  a  lar^e  body  of  these  ruf 
fians  had  settled  themselves  on  the  sides 
of  Vesuvius,  and  supported  themselves  by 
the  wholesale  plunder  and  pillage  of  the 
farms  and  villages  on  the  slopes  of  the 
hill.  An  order  was  immediately  given 
that  two  hundred  men  should  march  to 
the  mountain  to  destroy  this  band  of 
brigands.  The  company  selected  was 
that  belonging  to  Charles  and  Henry. 

The  next  day  found  our  young  heroines 
on  the  road  to  the  field  of  battle.  We 
can  fancy  the  position  and  thoughts  of 
those  tender,  delicate  girls,  marching  side 
by  side  with  the  rough,  bearded  soldiers  of 
Italy — the  one  rejoicing  in  the  wild  dream 
of  her  foolish  ambition  ;  the  other  trem 
bling  in  her  timid  heart,  and  dragged  in 
to  scenes  she  loathed  by  the  irresistible 
chain  of  affection  which  bound  her  to 
her  sister. 

No  wonder  the  tender  frame  of  girlhood 
yielded  to  the  severities  of  the  march — for 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     149 

amongst  those  who  were  first  to  fail  was 
the  amiable  Henry  ;  yet  there  were 
amongst  the  troops  men  whose  constitu 
tions  were  shattered  by  the  excesses  of 
their  youth,  and  Henry  became  less  re 
markable  as  a  young  officer  when  stal 
wart  men  who  had  felt  ere  then  the 
fatigues  of  war  were  falling  at  her  side. 
Charles  hired  a  horse  in  one  of  the  villa 
ges  they  passed  through,  and  thus  arrived 
fresh  and  strong  at  the  place  of  encamp 
ment,  a  few  miles  from  the  stronghold  of 
the  brigands.  Henry  came  up  in  the 
afternoon,  accompanied  by  about  thirty 
men  who,  like  herself,  failed  under  the 
fatigues  of  the  march. 

Rest  under  the  circumstances  was  im 
possible.  The  brigands  were  all  around, 
and  no  one  could  tell  the  moment  of  at 
tack.  Some  men  were  sent  on  as  scouts 
to  explore  the  hillside ;  they  never  re 
turned.  This  was  sufficient  indication  of 
an  ambuscade,  and  the  captain  bravely 
determined  to  march  his  whole  force  at 
once  into  their  hiding-place,  knowing, 


150  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

when  they  were  once  surprised,  they  had 
no  shelter  afterwards. 

Those  who  have  been  to  Mount  Vesu 
vius,  and  who  have  had  the  hardihood  to 
seek  the  exquisite  Lacryma  produced  on 
the  southwestern  slopes  of  the  hill,  will 
remember  a  peculiar  ravine  running  for 
nearly  a  mile  from  the  sandy  part  of  the 
cone,  and  covered  with  a  stunted  green 
bush  of  fern-like  leaves.  It  opens  wider 
at  one  part  nearly  facing  Sorento,  and  is 
more  covered  with  small  trees  and  ever 
greens.  It  is  the  nearest  green  spot  to 
the  calcined  cone.  It  assumes  a  gentle 
declivity  towards  the  sea,  and  is  then  lost 
in  the  beautiful  vineyards  and  gardens  that 
cover  the  slopes  of  the  mountain  down 
to  the  houses  of  Torre  del  Greco.  The 
view  from  this  spot  is  magnificent.  On 
the  left  is  the  beautiful  town  of  SoreiUo, 
with  houses  as  white  as  snow,  running  in 
detached  villas  along  the  sea-shore  up  to 
the  smoky  and  roofless  walls  of  Pompeii, 
whose  unsightly  ruins  lend  contrast  to  the 
scene  around.  The  azure  bay  seems  to 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.   151 

borrow  more  of  the  blue  of  heaven  as  it 
stretches  far  away  to  the  horizon  ;  the  lit 
tle  steamers  and  innumerable  yachts  that 
ply  between  the  islands  give  the  scene  ani 
mation  and  variety.  Around  to  the  right 
we  have  the  classic  hills  of  Baia,  the  Cam- 
po  Santo  in  its  fantastic  architecture,  and 
then  the  green  and  leafy  plains  of  the 
Campo  Felice;  beneath,  the  great  city  with 
its  four  hundred  thousand  souls,  its  red 
tiles  and  irregular  masses  of  brick -work, 
contrasting  with  the  gilded  domes  of  the 
superb  churches ;  and  above,  the  terrible 
cone,  vomiting  forth  its  sulphurous  smoke 
and  darkening  the  sky  with  clouds  of  its 
own  creation. 

The  view  that  can  be  had  from  this 
place,  and  the  interesting  history  of 
every  inch  of  the.  country  around,  render 
it  one  of  the  most  romantic  spots  in 
the  world.  But,  alas !  it  is  now,  as  it 
was  two  hundred  years  ago,  the  home 
and  retreat  of  those  desperate  Italian 
robbers  known  as  brigands.  Woe  be 
tide  the  incautious  traveller  whom  curi- 


1 5  2   A  Ivira,  tJie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

osity  leads  through  the  vineyards  of 
that  lonely  scene !  The  deeds  of  its  out 
lawed  and  daring  inhabitants  would  fill 
volumes.  It  was  here,  too,  as  far  as  we 
can  learn,  our  heroines  found  their  field 
of  battle. 

The  troops  had  scarcely  entered  this  ra 
vine  when  a  sharp,  shrill  whistle  rang  from 
one  side  of  the  mountain  to  the  other.  Im 
mediately  human  voices  were  heard  on  all 
sides,  repeating  in  every  pitch  of  tone,  from 
bass  to  soprano,  the  word  "  Rione."  For 
several  minutes  the  mountain  echoed  with 
the  weird  sound  of  the  brigand  war-cry  ; 
the  troops  were  ordered  to  stand  in  readi 
ness,  and  timid  hearts  like  Henry's  quailed 
at  the  awful  moment. 

The  earth  rumbled  under  their  feet,  and 
dark,  bluish  columns  of  smoke  curled  into 
the  air  from  the  terrible  cone ;  the  sun  was 
setting  over  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Naples  in 
the  color  of  blood,  and  the  air  was  impreg 
nated  with  the  fumes  of  sulphur.  The 
wildness  of  the  spot,  and  nature's  terrors 
convulsing  the  elements  around,  made,  in- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    153 

deed,  the  moment  before  battle  a  dreadful 
moment  for  the  delicate  children  of  the 
French  banker. 

A  few  minutes,  and  the  battle  was  at 
its  height.  A  long  and  dreadful  con 
test  ensued.  The  numbers  were  about 
equal  on  both  sides.  Fortunately,  the 
brigands  had  not  time  to  muster  all  at 
once,  and  the  royalist  troops  met  them 
in  small  but  desperate  bands.  No  sooner 
was  one  defeated  than  another  and  an 
other  poured  down  from  the  sides  of  the 
mountain  and  disputed  every  inch  of  the 
way.  The  brigands  fought  bravely,  but 
were  outnumbered,  and  towards  midnight 
the  bloodshed  ceased.  All  sounds  had 
died  away  save  the  groans  of  the  wound 
ed  and  dying,  and  now  and  then  a  soli 
tary  whoop  of  a  brigand  chief  from  the 
distant  hills,  calling  together  the  few  strag- 
o-lino-  and  scattered  bands  of  rebels. 

o         o 

The  moment  the  heat  of  the  combat  wag 
over  the  first  thought  that  struck  Charles 
was  to  look  for  Henry.  They  were  sepa^ 
rated  in  the  confusion  of  the  fight.  She 


154    Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

ran  through  the  men,  but  could  not  find 
her.  Here  and  there  she  could  discern 
in  the  pale  light  of  a  clouded  moon  some 
knots  ot  soldiers  binding  up  their  wounds 
and  recounting  their  escapes  and  their  tri 
umphs.  She  hurriedly  ran  through  them, 
enquiring  for  her  brother-officer,  but  none 
knew  anything  of  her.  She  scanned 
every  feature,  she  called  her  in  every 
group,  but  in  vain — no  Henry  was 
there.  The  awful  thought  struck  her — 
and  her  heart  nearly  broke  under  its 
pang — perhaps  she  is  killed  !  She  flew 
across  the  bloody  path  they  had  passed; 
her  mournful  and  shrill  cry  of  "Enrico!" 
rolled  over  the  bodies  of  the  slain,  and 
was  echoed  again  and  again  with  plain 
tive  intensity  from  the  surrounding  hills. 
Sometimes  she  even  fancied  the  dying 
echo  of  her  own  shrill  cry  was  the 
feeble  answer  of  her  wounded  sister ;  and 
when  she  would  pause  to  listen  again,  the 
valley  around  was  wrapt  in  the  stillness 
of  death.  At  length  she  came  to  the 
spot  where  the  battle  first  commenced, 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    155 

and  there,  with  a  shriek  that  was  heard 
in  the  distant  encampment,  she  found 
among  the  first  victims  of  that  bloody 
night  the  lifeless  corpse  of  her  sister. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    MORNING    AFTER    THE    BATTLE. 

THE  morning  sun  rose  dimly  in  a 
bank  of  clouds.  It  found  Charles  still 
clinging  to  the  remains  of  poor  Aloysia, 
and  bathing  with  kisses  and  tears  the 
stiffened  features  of  her  beloved  sister. 
With  a  silken  kerchief  she  had  bandaged 
the  fatal  gash  on  her  neck,  believing  she 
might  be  only  in  a  swoon  and  might 
recover.  Hope,  which  is  the  last  com 
fort  to  abandon  man  in  his  most  des 
perate  condition,  scarcely  retarded  for 
Charles  the  awful  reality  of  her  bereave 
ment. 

The  pale  moon  that  has  rolled  over  so 
many  generations,  and  lent  its  dim,  silvery 
light  to  so  many  thrilling  vicissitudes,  never 
looked  down  on  a  sadder  scene.  Death 

156 


A  fair  a,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    1 5  7 

has  no  pang  equal  to  the  blow  it  gives  true 
affection.  No  language  could  describe 
what  the  heart  feels  on  occasions  like 
this.  There  sat  the  delicate  French  girl, 
alone  in  the  dark  nio-ht,  on  the  side  of 

o 

Vesuvius,  in  the  midst  of  the  bleeding 
victims  of  the  bloody  fight,  and  clasping 
to  her  heart  the  cold,  lifeless  body  of  her 
ill-fated  sister. 

Her  sudden  and  awful  end,  swept,  per 
haps,  into  eternity  without  a  moment's  no 
tice,  to  be  buried  in  the  ashes  ot  the  vol 
cano,  amidst  the  dishonored  remains  of 
outlaws  and  murderers — does  not  the 
thought  strike  us  that  this  sad  fate  was 
more  the  due  of  Alvira  than  the  innocent 
and  harmless  Aloysia  ? 

Alvira  felt  it,  and  her  repentant  heart 
was  almost  broke. 

"O  Aloysia!"  hear  her  moan  over  the 
angelic  form,  "  you  innocent  and  I  guilty; 
you  slain,  judged,  and  I  free  to  heap 
greater  ingratitude  on  the  Being  who  has 
saved  me.  Atoysia,  forgive!  Thou  wert 
dragged  unwillingly  to  these  desperate 


158  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

scenes  of  bloodshed  by  my  infatuation. 
O  God!  strike  me.  I  am  the  wretch;  let 
this  angel  live  to  honor  thee  in  the  angelic 
simplicity  of  her  innocence  !  " 

Never  was  a  fairer  flower  blasted  by  the 
lightning  of  Heaven.  Neither  Charles  nor 
Henry  knew  what  was  before  them  in  their 
march  to  Vesuvius.  To  surround  and  cap 
ture  a  few  runaways  was  perhaps  the  most 
they  expected ;  and  Henry,  in  the  confid 
ing  affection  of  her  heart,  clung  to  Charles, 
determined  to  bear  fatigue  and  hardship 
rather  than  be  separated  from  her. 

It  must  be  a  painful  picture  that  fancy 
will  paint  of  the  last  hour  of  this  lovely 
child.  The  anguish  of  her  heart  must  have 
been  keener  than  the  deep  wound  that  sent 
the  life-streams  to  mingle  with  the  lava  of 
the  mountain  :  no  one  to  minister  a  drop 
ot  water  to  her  parched  lips ;  no  friendly 
voice  to  console  her ;  the  moans  and  im 
precations  of  the  wounded  brigands  grat 
ing-  on  her  ears ;  the  thought  that  her  sis- 

o  *^ 

ter,  too,  was  perhaps  lying  in  pain,  and 
sinking  from  her  wounds;  and,  above  all — 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    159 

that  which,  perhaps,  sent  the  last  blush  to 
her  cheek — the  fear  of  the  discovery  of  her 
sex,  and  the  rough  gaze  of  a  brutal  sol 
diery.  But  Heaven's  sympathizing  spirits 
were  gathered  around  this  child  of  misfor 
tune,  and  doubtless  with  her  last  sigh  she 
breathed  her  pure  soul  into  their  hands, 
and  the  last  wish  was  answered — for  she 
was  good  and  innocent  before  God. 

When  the  sun  had  fully  risen,  Charles  was 
approached  by  a  sergeant  of  the  troops,  who 
announced  to  her  that  the  captain  had  died 
during  the  night  from  his  wounds,  and,  as 
she  was  the  senior  officer,  they  waited  her 
orders.  Dissembling  her  grief,  Charles 
rose  to  her  feet  and  gave  directions  that 
the  bodies  of  the  captain  and  her  brother 
should  be  buried  in  their  clothes  and  wrap 
ped  in  the  flag  of  the  country.  The 
hardy  veterans  raised  the  delicate  frame 
of  Henry,  and  carried  it  on  a  rude  bier  to 
the  hut  where  the  remains  of  the  cap 
tain  were  prepared  for  interment.  Silent 
and  solemn  was  the  funeral  cortege.  No 
drum,  not  a  funeral  note,  was  heard. 


160  A  Ivtra,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

Every  eye  was  wet,  and  the  breast  of 
Charles  was  not  the  only  one  that  heav 
ed  the  farewell  sigh  over  the  young  and 
beautiful  officer. 

Charles  stood  by  to  see  the  last  of  her 
sister.  The  dark,  black  sand  was  poured 
down  on  her  lovely  face,  and  silently  and 
quickly  her  mountain  grave  was  filled  by 
the  blood-stained  hands  of  her  compan 
ions  in  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

RETURN A    TRIUMPH. 

CHARLES    has    dreamt  a  golden    dream 

o  • 

Ambition's  cup  is  full,  but  its  draught  is 
bitter.  On  the  march  to  Naples,  in  tri 
umph,  commanding-  the  royal  troops,  who 
had  completely  beaten  the  brigands,  were 
glories  Charles  never  thought  she  was 
one  day  to  obtain.  With  her  return  to 
the  city  the  war  was  ended,  and  the  peo 
ple  were  rejoicing  in  the  restoration  of 
peace.  The  young  captain  who  had  re 
turned  so  victorious  from  Vesuvius  was 
the  lion  of  the  day.  The  city  gave  her 
an  ovation  far  beyond  her  most  sanguine 
hopes.  Illuminations  were  instituted  in 
her  honor,  her  name  was  shouted  in  the 
streets,  and  the  nobles  and  great  ones  of 
the  state  gathered  around  her  as  if  the 
safety  of  the  kingdom  had  depended  on 


161 


1 62    Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

her  own  personal  efforts.  For  some  time 
crowds  of  lazzaroli  gathered  around  the 

o 

entrance  of  the  Molo  to  see  the  young 
and  beautiful  captain  who  had  achieved 
such  wonders;  and  we  can  fancy  how 
sweetly  would  ring  on  the  ears  of  our 
ambitious  heroine  the  shout  of  the  enthu 
siastic  crowd  sending  far  and  wide  the 
"  Erira  Carlo  Pimontel  ! "  The  King 
confirmed  her  position  of  captain,  and  sent 
her  the  iron  and  golden  crosses  of  honor, 
only  given  to  the  bravest  of  the  brave  in 
those  days  of  strife  and  warfare. 

But  vanity  of  vanities,  and  all  is  van 
ity  !  Let  us  raise  the  veil  of  deception 
that  shrouds  the  emptiness  of  human 
joy.  Alvira  has  now  gratified  her  heart's 
desires  in  everything  she  could  have 
under  the  sun.  She  had  beauty,  wealth, 
and  fame,  but  she  was  like  the  pretty 
moth  that  hovers  around  the  flame  of 
the  candle,  and  finds  its  ruin  in  the 
touch  of  the  splendor  it  loves.  Poor 
Alvira  was  another  child  of  Solomon 
that  sighed  over  the  emptiness  of  hu- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    163 

man  joy  ;  for  bitter  disappointment  is 
the  sad  tale  ever  told  in  the  realization 
of  misguided  hope.  Often,  at  midnight, 
when  the  unknown  captain  would  return 
from  the  theatre  or  some  festive  enter 
tainment  given  in  her  honor,  she  would 
sit  at  her  table,  wearied  and  disgusted, 
and  weep  bitterly.  The  unnatural  re 
straint  necessary  to  preserve  her  dis 
guise,  the  separation  from  all  the  com 
forts  and  sympathies  common  to  her  sex, 
and  the  painful  reminiscences  of  the  past 
wrung  tears  of  misery  from  her  aching 
heart.  The  dreams  of  Messina  haunted 
her  still,  but  increased  in  anguish  and  ter 
ror,  as  her  thoughts  could  now  fly  from 
the  lonely  cave  on  the  Alps  to  the  battle 
field  on  the  side  of  Vesuvius.  Again  the 
pangs  of  remorse  poisoned  every  joy ; 
again  the  angry  countenance  and  clench 
ed  hand  of  her  murdered  father  would 
bend  over  her  restless  couch ;  and  again 
the  scream  of  terror  in  the  dark,  silent 
midnight  would  summon  her  friends 
around  her.  Deep  and  fervent  the 


164  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

prayer  that  was  poured  forth  from  that 
sad  and  breaking  heart  that  some  provi 
dential  circumstance  would  enable  her  to 
make  the  change  she  had  now  long  pre 
meditated.  That  change  is  at  hand.  Her 
mother's  prayer  is  still  pleading  for  her  be 
fore  the  throne  of  God  ;  he  who  cast  an 
eye  of  mercy  on  the  erring  Magdalen  had 
already  written  the  .name  of  Alvira  in  the 
book  of  life,  and  destined  her  to  be  one  of 
the  noblest  models  of  repentance  that  adorn 
the  latter  history  of  the  Church.  Let  us 
come  to  the  sequel  of  this  extraordinary 
history ;  but  first  we  must  introduce  our 
readers  to  a  new  character — a  great  and 
holy  man,  destined  by  Providence  to  save 
Alvira,  and  give  the  most  interesting  and 
most  remarkable  chapter  in  this  romance 
of  real  life. 
4 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

ALVIRA'S   CONFESSION. 

Tremble,  thou  wretch, 
Thou  hast  within  thee  undivulged  crimes, 
Unwhipped  of  justice  :  hide  thee,  thou  bloody  hand  ; 
Thou  perjured,  and  thou  simular  man  of  virtue, 
Thou  art  incestuous  :  caitiff,  to  pieces  shake. 
That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 
Hast  practised  on  man's  life  :  close  pent-up  guilts, 
Rive  your  concealing  continents,  and  crv 

These  dreadful  summoners  grace. 

— LEAR. 

IT  was  a.  beautiful  morning  in  the  Lent 
of  1678.  The  sun  had  risen  over  the  Ap 
ennines,  and  flung  its  magnificence  over  the 
Bay  of  Naples.  The  smoke  of  Vesuvius 
cast  its  shadow  like  a  monstrous  pine  over 
the  vineyards  and  villas  that  adorned  the 
mountain-side  to  the  sea-shore.  The  morn 
ing  was  such  as  Byron  gazed  on  in  fancy 
through  the  sorrowful  eyes  of  the  eloquent 
heroine  of  one  of  his  tragedies: 

165 


1 66  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

"So  bright,  so  rolling  back  the  clouds  into 
Vapors  more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky, 
With  golden  pinnacles  and  snowy  mountains, 
And  billows  purpler  than  the  ocean's,  making 
In  heaven  a  glorious  mockery  of  the  earth, 
So  like  we  almost  deem  it  permanent, 
So  fleeting  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 
Beyond  a  vision,  'tis  so  transiently 
Scattered  along  the  eternal  vault !" 

Whilst  the  eighth  hour  was  chiming  from 
the  tower  of  the  old  Gesu  there  issued 
from  the  monastery  attached  to  the  church 
a  priest  accompanied  by  an  acolyte  bear 
ing  a  large,  plain  cross  and  ringing  a  small 
bell.  They  moved  in  the  direction  of  the 
mole  or  old  fortress  of  the  city.  Soon  a 
crowd  followed — some  bare-headed ;  others, 
especially  the  females,  told  their  beads  in 
silence. 

The  traveller  in  Italy  is  aware  of  the 
pious  custom  practised  by  some  of  the  re 
ligious  communities  of  preaching  in  the 
open  air  to  the  people  during  the  season 
of  Lent.  Extraordinary  things  are  related 
of  these  harangues.  The  lives  of  the 
sainted  missionaries  ring  with  tales  of  the 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    167 

marvellous  and  miraculous  powers  given  to 
God's  servants  when,  in  moments  of  fire 
and  zeal,  they  went  from  their  cloisters  like 
beings  of  another  world  to  awaken  sin 
ners  to  a  sense  of  future  terrors.  At  one 
time  we  read  of  the  saint's  voice  carried 
miraculously  to  a  distance  of  several  miles ; 
the  peasant  working  in  the  fie  ds  would 
hear  the  sweet  sounds  without  seeing  the 
speaker.  At  another  the  funeral  proces 
sion  was  arrested  and  the  dead  called  from 
the  bier  to  testify  to  the  truth  of  their 
teaching.  Curing  the  cripple  and  restor 
ing  health  to  the  sick  were  of  ordinary 
occurrence.  Our  blessed  Lord  told  the 
messengers  who  came  to  enquire  about 
him  to  report  his  miracles  as  a  proof  of  his 
divinity  :  the  blind  see,  the  lame  walk,  the 
sick  are  restored  to  health  ;  but  greater 
than  all  his  reversions  of  the  natural  laws 
were  the  humility  and  the  mysterious  ar- 
arrangement  of  his  providence  which  he 
prophetically  announced  when  he  told  his 
disciples  that  those  who  should  come  after 
him  would  perform  greater  miracles  than 


1 68   Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius, 

he.  There  are  few  of  the  Thaumaturgi 
more  celebrated  than  the  humble  father 
who  has  just  issued  from  the  Gesu  to 
thunder  forth  with  superhuman  eloquence 
the  truths  of  God  and  religion. 

No  sooner  had  the  people  heard  the 
little  bell  of  the  attendant  and  seen  the 
venerable  priest  leave  the  college  than  they 
gathered  from  various  quarters,  and  seem 
ed  to  vie  with  each  other  in  getting  nearest 
to  him. 

He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  his  hair  gray, 
shading  a  majestic  forehead,  and  but 
slightly  wrinkled  with  the  summers  of 
over  sixty  years;  his  eyes  were  partly 
closed,  but  when  preaching  they  glowed 
with  animation,  arid  were  brightened 
by  the  tears  that  dimmed  them ;  his 
long,  wiry  fingers  were  interlocked  and 
raised  towards  his  breast  in  the  attitude 
of  deep  contemplation.  The  rough  sou 
tane  and  leather  belt,  the  beads  and 
missionary  cross  partly  hid  in  his  breast, 
declared  him  to  be  a  follower  of  St.  Igna 
tius.  In  the  hallowed  austerity  of  his 


Alvim,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     169 

whole  appearance,  in  the  sweetness  blend 
ed  with  religious  gravity,  and  in  the  re 
spect  and  love  manifested  in  the  ever-in 
creasing-  crowd,  one  easily  learned  he  was 
more  than  an  ordinary  man.  The  people 
of  Naples  knew  him  by  the  endearing 
name  of  'Brother  Francis ;  history  has 
since  written  his  name  in  letters  of  o-old  on 

o 

the  altars  of  the  Catholic  Church  as  St. 
Francis  of  Jerome. 

It  must  have  been  a  treat  to  the  people 
who  heard  such  saints  as  Francis  of  Jerome 
preach.  Natural  eloquence  is  a  rare  and 
powerful  gift ;  when  guided  by  education 
and  study,  the  talent  exercises  a  marvellous 
influence  on  man  ;  but  add  to  these  two  a 
zeal  and  fervor  of  spirit  such  as  burned  in 
the  mortified  spirit  of  the  man  of  God,  and 
we  have  a  power  that  is  nothing  short  of 
supernatural  and  irresistible. 

From  a  heart  all  aglow  with  divine  love 
he  soon  enkindled  in  his  hearers  that  fire 
his  divine  Master  came  to  kindle  on  earth. 
His  sermons  were  miracles.  So  great  was 
the  crowd  around  him  at  times  that  it 


I  70  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

would  be  impossible  for  any  human  voice 
to  reach  his  furthest  hearers.  Yet  every 
word  of  the  great  preacher  went  with  sil 
very  tone  and  moving  power,  as  if  wafted 
on  angel  breathings,  to  the  ears  of  sinners 
whom  chance  or  grace  had  brought  to  join 
the  immense  crowd  that  surrounded  his 
rude  platform.  Each  sermon  brought 
hundreds  to  repentance.  Eyes  that  were 
long  dry  melted  into  tears,  and  hearts  that 
were  strangers  to  every  sweet  and  holy  in 
fluence  throbbed  with  emotion.  Efforts  to 
check  the  pent-up  feelings  were  expressed 
by  louder  and  convulsive  sobs  ;  some  knelt 
and  prayed,  others  beat  their  breasts  in  the 
agony  of  contrition.  The  immense  con 
course  of  people,  simple  and  religious 
minded,  at  all  times  impressionable,  were, 
under  the  appeals  of  Francis,  moved  as  in 
times  of  public  calamity,  and  the  whole 
crowd  swayed  to  and  fro  as  the  deep 
moved  by  the  storm — now  trembling  in 
terror,  now  ashamed  of  sin  and  ingratitude, 
and  again  encouraged  with  hope,  whose 
cheerful  beams  the  orator  would  cause  to 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    171 

dart   through   the  dark   clouds  he  himself 
had  gathered  over  their  mental  vision. 

On  one  occasion  a  courtesan  ridiculed 
from  her  bed- room  window  the  words  of  the 
saint.  She  fell  dead  immediately.  When 
he  heard  of  the  awful  judgment  passed  on 
this  hapless  woman,  he  ordered  her  body  to 
be  brought  to  him.  Then,  amidst  a  death 
like  silence,  he  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  thun 
der  that  penetrated  the  regions  of  the 
damned:  "Catherine,  where  art  thou  now?" 

The  soul  answered  with  a  shriek  that 
sent  a  thrill  through  the  assembled  thou 
sands:  "  In  hell  !  " 

Although  in  scenes  of  terror  like  these 
Francis  thundered  forth  the  awful  destinies 
of  the  judged,  yet  the  mercy  of  God  to 
wards  the  sinner  was  his  favorite  theme. 
He  looked  on  himself  as  called  in  a  spe 
cial  manner  to  seek  out  the  lost  sheep, 
to  soften  down  the  roughness  found  on  the 
path  of  repentance,  to  aid  in  the  struggles 
willing  souls  find  in  their  efforts  at  reforma 
tion.  Francis  knew,  as  all  masters  of  the 
spiritual  life  have  learned,  there  is  more 


172  A  fair  a,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

power  in  the  eloquence  of  forgiving  love 
than  in  the  terrors  of  retribution  ;  hence, 
with  tears  and  burning  sentiments  of  sym 
pathy  for  the  erring  children  of  men,  he  led 
his  hearers  as  it  were  by  the  hand  to  the 
Father  of  the  prodigal — to  that  Jesus  who 
forgave  and  loved  the  penitent  Magda 
len. 

Francis  has  now  ascended  his  platform. 
The  crowd  are  swelling  around.  He  raises 
the  sign  of  redemption  over  their  heads; 
in  a  few  majestic  sentences  he  commences 
his  subject  ;  the  fire  is  kindling  in  his 
eye,  and  the  thunder  is  deepening  in  his 
splendid  voice.  The  listeners  are  wrapt  in 
breathless  attention. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  there  is 
a  young  officer,  slender,  graceful,  tidy  to 
a  fault.  It  is  Alvira. 

She  was  passing  down  the  Toledo,  and 
had  already  heard  the  saint  before  she  had 
seen  him.  She  had  heard  of  the  great 
preacher,  but  was  afraid  to  meet  him. 
Grace  had  followed  her  in  all  her  wander 
ings,  and  the  prayers  of  her  mother  were 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    173 

still  heard  at  the  throne  of  God.  The 
crowd  is  so  great  Alvira  cannot  pass  to 
the  Molo,  where  she  was  quartered  with 
her  regiment.  She  must  listen. 

Strange,  consoling  ways  of  divine  grace! 
It  was  thee,  O  Lord  !  who  drew  thy  ser 
vant  from  his  convent  on  that  auspicious 
morning ;  thou  did'st  gather  the  crowd 
around  him,  and  inspire  him  with  the 
words  and  theme  of  his  moving  discourse  ! 
It  was  thy  mercy,  smiling  with  compassion 
on  a  noble  but  erring  soul,  which  brought 
her  to  listen  to  those  words  that  would 
bring  thy  grace  to  her  heart ! 

Like  one  whose  eye  has  caught  a  bril 
liant  meteor  flying  through  the  heavens, 
and  remains  gazing  on  it  until  it  has  dis 
appeared,  Alvira  could  not  remove  her  eyes 
from  Francis.  When  she  saw  his  saintly 
figure  standing  on  the  rude  platform,  hold 
ing  in  his  outstretched  hand  the  saving 
sign  of  redemption,  she  was  seized  with  an 
unaccountable  feeling  of  awe.  Although 
every  word  of  the  sermon  was  heard  and 
weighed,  it  seemed  as  if  the  pent-up  me- 


1 74  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

mories  of  her  soul  took  precedence  of  her 
thoughts,  and  rushed  on  her  with  over 
whelming  force,  like  the  winds  let  loose  by 
the  storm-god  of  old.  Everything  strange 
or  sad  in  her  past  career  lent  its  quota  of 
color  to  the  dark  picture  remorse,  with  cruel 
and  masterly  hand,  delineated  before  her 
troubled  spirit.  The  struggle,  the  agony 
she  had  learned  to  brave  in  the  Duomo 
at  Milan  and  the  fortress  of  Messina,  rose 
again  with  hydra  fangs  from  the  tomb 
of  oblivion  in  which  recent  excitements 
had  buried  it.  None  but  her  guardian 
angel  knew  her  soul  was  once  more  the 
battle-field  of  contending  feelings.  At 
length  a  crimson  blush  passed  over  her 
marble  features ;  a  crystal  tear-drop 
dimmed  her  eye ;  another  sprang  from 
the  reservoirs  of  the  heart  and  stole  down 
the  blushing  cheek.  Alvira  wept. 

Tears  have  a  language  of  their  own 
deep  and  powerful ;  they  tell  of  the  weak 
ness  of  the  human  heart,  not  its  triumphs; 
for  passion  has  a  throne  that  tears  may 
wash  in  vain.  It  is  easier  to  drive  the 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    175 

mighty  river  from  its  long-loved  bed  than 
the  soul  from  the  normal  state  of  its  grati 
fied  tendencies. 

"  The  heart,"  says  St.  Liguori,  "  where 
passion  reigns,  has  become  a  crystal  vase 
filled  with  earth  no  longer  penetrated  by 
the  rays  of  the  sun."  The  iron  pedestal 
of  passion's  throne  was  not  yet  shivered  in 
the  heart  of  Alvira,  nor  were  tears  a  sign 
that  the  sun  of  grace  had  pierced  the  crys 
tal  vase  of  the  worldly  heart.  Great  will  be 
the  grace  that  will  draw  Alvira  from  the 
zenith  of  a  golden  dream  in  which  a  trium 
phant  ambition  has  placed  her  above  her 
sex,  and  great  amongst  the  heroes  of  the 
manly  sex  she  feigned.  Her  conversion 
will  be  a  miracle — a  miracle  of  sweet  vio 
lence,  such  as  drew  the  Magdalens,  theAu- 
gustines,  and  the  Cortonas  from  the  tram 
mels  of  vice  to  the  holy  and  happy  path  of 
repentance. 

The  sermon  is  over.  The  crowd  is  still 
between  Alvira  and  the  Molo  ;  she  must 
wait. 

The    people    are    gradually    dispersing. 


176  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

Some  go  to  the  church  to  follow  up  the  holy 
inspirations  given,  to  throw  themselves  at 
the  feet  of  a  confessor,  to  break  the  chains 
of  sin  ;  others  hasten  to  their  homes  or 
daily  avocations,  wondering,  pleased,  and 
sanctified  in  good  desires  and  resolutions 
that  came  gushing  from  their  hearts. 

Alvira  is  standing  one  side  alone  and 
wrapt  in  thought.  Suddenly  she  looks  up. 
Something  catches  her  eye.  She  starts; 
a  tremble  passes  from  head  to  foot.  She 
looks  again  ;  her  worst  terrors  are  realized. 
It  is — Father  Francis  is  coming  towards 

o 

her! 

"But  he  can't  be  coming  to  me,"  she 
thought  to  herself.  She  looked  around 
to  see  if  there  were  any  other  object  to 
bring  the  father  in  that  direction ;  but 
there  was  no  poor  creature  to  ask  his 
charity,  no  poor  cripple  to  seek  his  sym 
pathy  ;  she  was  almost  alone.  She  could 
have  fled,  but  felt  herself  fixed  to  the 
ground,  and  with  desperate  efforts  endea 
vored  to  conceal  her  excitement.  He  ap 
proaches  nearer  ;  with  glistening  eye  she 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    177 

watches  and  hopes  some  fortuitous  cir 
cumstance  may  call  him  aside.  Their 
glance  meets ;  she  blushes  and  trembles. 
Father  Francis  is  before  her. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  on  the  young 
captain  with  a  kind,  penetrating  look;  and 
a  smile  on  his  features  seemed  to  express 
a  friendly  recognition.  Calling  her  by 
her  assumed  name,  he  said  to  her,  almost 
in  a  whisper:  "Charles,  go  to  confession; 
God  wishes  thee  well." 

Alvira  was  relieved.  The  kind,  gentle 
manner  of  the  father  calmed  the  storm  of 
conflicting  fears.  Rejecting  the  inward 
calls  of  grace,  and  hoping  she  was  not 
discovered,  she  replied  with  some  hesita 
tion  : 

"But,  father,  I  don't  require  to  go  to 
confession.  I  have  not  done  anything 

wrong." 

Her  voice  faltered,  and  the  blush  of 
conscious  falsehood  grew  deeper  and 
deeper  on  her  glowing  features. 

Father  Francis  drew  himself  up  with 
majesty;  his  eye  beamed  with  the  glow 


178  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

of  inspiration,  and  in  a  solemn  reproof 
he  addressed  the  trembling  girl : 

"  You  have  done  nothing  wrong,  no 
thing  to  merit  the  judgments  of  a  ter 
rible  God — you,  who  murdered  your  fa 
ther  in  the  snows  of  the  Alps,  robbed 
him  of  ill-gotten  wealth,  spent  it  in  gam 
ing,  and  dragged  your  innocent  sister  in  the 
path  of  your  own  shameless  adventure  !  " 

"Father!  father!"  cried  Alvira,  burst 
ing  into  convulsive  sobs. 

"  Maria  Alvira  Gassier,"  continued  the 
man  of  God  in  a  milder  tone  "go  and 
change  those  garments ;  cease  this  tale 
of  guilty  hypocrisy.  But — " 

Advancing  towards  her,  he  tcvj-k  her 
hand,  and,  resuming  the  paternal  smile 
that  relaxed  his  solemn  features  and  ban 
ished  her  fears,  said  in  a  low  tone  :  k'  But 
come  with  me  to  the  Gesu." 

Alvira  obeyed.  She  was  thunderstruck. 
The  revelation  of  the  "freat  secrets  of  her 

o 

life  summoned  up  paralyzing  fears;  but, 
accustomed  to  brave  the  succumbing  weak 
ness  of  the  feminine  character,  and  en 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     179 

couraged  by  the  paternal  manner  of  the 
father,  she  did  not  faint,  but  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  wept. 

In  silence  she  followed  Father  Francis. 
She  skilfully  concealed  her  emotions  ;  the 
tears  were  brushed  away  as  rapidly  as 
they  overflowed.  In  passing  the  squares 
that  separated  them  from  the  church,  Al 
vira  had  resolved  to  unbosom  herself  to 
the  good  father.  Like  the  angel  that  led 
Peter  from  his  prison,  she  knew  this 
sainted  man  was  destined  to  lead  her  from 
the  prison  of  her  hypocrisy.  Where 
grace  has  not  conquered,  consequences 
are  weighed,  the  future  becomes  too  dark 
and  unknown  for  the  cowardly  heart,  and 
temporal  evils  assume  the  weight  of 
eternal  woes ;  the  blinded  self-love  yields, 
and  the  moment  of  grace  is  abandoned. 
But  Alvira's  conversion  was  complete,  and, 
without  one  doubt  or  fear  for  the  future, 
she  handed  herself  to  the  guidance  of  the 
venerable  father,  who  had  learned  by  in 
spiration  from  heaven  the  spiritual  mala 
dies  of  her  soul. 


I  So    Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

The  whole  of  that  day  was  spent  in  the 
church.  She  crouched  into  an  angle  be 
hind  one  of  the  large  pillars.  Like  the 
dew  that  freshens  and  vivifies  the  vegeta 
tion  that  has  been  dried  up  by  the  parch 
ing  sun,  the  exhilarating  breathings  of  the 
divine  Spirit  spread  over  her  soul  that 
peace  which  surpasseth  all  understanding. 
In  the  fervor  of  her  first  real  moments  of 
prayer,  the  hours  passed  as  seconds;  un 
mindful  of  food,  of  the  duties  incumbent  on 
her  military  profession,  and  of  the  busy 
world  around,  she  was  not  roused  from  her 
reverie  until  the  golden  floods  of  the  set- 
ing  sunlight  fell  in  tinted  splendor  through 
the  stained-cjlass  windows  of  the  old  Goth- 

o 

ic  church. 

As  the  church  bells  were  merrily  chim 
ing  the  Ave  Maria,  a  gentle  tap  on  her 
shoulder  called  her  attention.  It  was 
Father  Francis.  He  had  watched  her  all 
the  day  with  a  secret  joy  ;  he  knew  the 
value  of  moments  like  these  in  maturing 
the  resolutions  of  the  converted  soul,  and, 
as  he  had  not  yet  completed  his  arrange- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.   181 

ments,  he  was  afraid  his  penitent  might 
slip  from  him  in  the  crowd  and  be  exposed 
to  temptations  that  might  discourage  her  ; 
the  cold  blast  of  the  world  might  shake  to 

o 

the  ground  the  fabric  he  had  commenced 
to  build.  He  bent  his  venerable  counte 
nance  to  her  ear,  whispered  a  word  of  con 
solation,  and  bade  her  not  leave  till  he 
came  for  her. 

The  father  moved  silently  and  thought 
fully  through  the  sombre  aisles  ;  now  and 
then  he  would  stop  to  converse  with  some 
child  of  grace,  for  he  had  many  awaiting 
his  spiritual  aid.  With  smiles  of  holy  joy, 
he  imparted  consolation  to  each,  and  sent 
them  to  their  homes  accompanied  by  those 
spirits  that  rejoice  in  the  conversion  of  the 
sinner. 

A  few  moments,  and  the  lights  are  extin 
guished,  the  crowd  is  gone.  The  cough 
and  suppressed  sigh  are  no  longer  heard 
from  the  deep  aisles,  and  the  footsteps  of 
the  ever-changing  crowd  have  ceased  to 
clatter  on  the  marble  pavement.  The  so 
litary  lamp  in  the  sanctuary  cast  a  fitful 


182  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius* 

shadow  through  the  silent  and  abandoned 
church,  and  was  the  only  indication  of  the 
presence  of  Him  who  rules  in  the  vast 
spheres  of  the  heavens.  Alvira  felt  hap 
pier  in  this  lonely  moment  before  the  Most 
Holy  Sacrament  The  fruit  of  years  of 
penance,  and  the  conquest  of  turbulent, 
rebellious  passions,  have  often  been  gained 
in  moments  of  fervor  before  the  altar. 
Like  sand,  changed  to  transparent  crystal 
glass  under  the  blow-pipe,  the  heart  is 
melted  and  purified  under  the  fire  of 
love  that  darts  in  invisible  streams  from 
the  loving  Victim  of  the  tabernacle. 

The  closing  of  the  church  door  and  the 
rattling  of  carriage  wheels  in  the  direction 
of  the  Chaja  close  an  eventful  day,  record 
ed  in  golden  letters  in  heaven's  history  of 
repentant  humanity. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HONOR    SAVED. 

A  SERIES  of  surprises  followed  this  me 
morable  conversion.  Alvira's  absence  from 
the  garrison  was  the  subject  of  serious  com 
ment.  Rumor  was  busy,  and  disposed  of 
the  young  captain  by  every  imaginable  vio 
lent  death.  One  report  seemed  the  most 
probable  and  gained  ground.  It  was  thought 
the  partisans  of  the  defeated  partv,  remem 
bering  the  victory  of  Vesuvius,  and  gall 
ed  at  the  popularity  of  the  young  cap 
tain,  had  waylaid  and  murdered  him. 
At  the  same  time  the  mangled  body  of  a 
young  man  was  found  washed  into  the 
river  by  the  tide;  it  was  mutilated  and 
disfigured  beyond  recognition  ;  the  popu 
lace  claimed  it  to  be  the  body  of  their  fa 
vorite,  and  loud  and  shrill  ,rang  the  indig- 


188 


184  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

nant  cry  for  vengeance.  The  city  was  in 
commotion.  The  authorities  were  induced 
to  believe  the  report,  and  large  rewards 
were  offered  for  the  apprehension  of  the 
murderers.  'Tis  but  a  spark  that  may  set 
the  wood  on  fire ;  and  popular  feeling, 
fired  by  a  random  rumor,  now  blazed  in 
all  the  fury  of  a  political  conflagration. 

In  the  midst  of  the  commotion  the  com 
mandant  of  the  forces  received  a  polite 
note  requesting  his  presence  at  the  resi 
dence  of  the  Marchioness  de  Stefano. 
Puzzled  at  the  strange  summons,  but  po 
lite  to  a  fault,  he  appeared  in  grand  tenu 
at  the  appointed  hour  in  the  salons  of  the 
Marchioness.  A  young  lady  was  ushered 
into  the  apartment  She  was  dressed  in 
black,  wore  no  jewelry,  and  seemed  a  little 
confused;  a  majestic  mien  set  off  some 
natural  charms,  but  her  features  had  an 
expression  of  care  and  sadness  such  as  is 
read  on  the  countenance  of  the  loving  fair 
one  \vho  has  been  widowed  in  her  bloom. 
Her  eyes  were  red,  for  many  tears  had 
dimmed  them ;  her  voice  was  weak,  for 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.     185 

shame  had  choked  the  utterances  in  their 
birth;  her  whole  demeanor  expressed  deep 
anxiety  and  trouble. 

The  commandant  was  kind-hearted,  but 
a  stern  ruler  in  those  days  of  trouble  ;  he 
had  seen  in  the  revolutions  of  many  years 
the  miseries  and  sorrows  of  life  ;  though 

o 

insensible  to  the  horrors  of  the  battle-field, 
he  felt  a  deep,  touching  sympathy  with  its 
real  victims  who  survive  and  suffer  for 
years  in  silent  woe,  in  affections  that  have 
been  ruthlessly  blasted  by  cruel  war.  The 
feeling  of  compassion  towards  the  strange 
lady  introduced  to  him  were  deeply  en 
hanced  by  the  remarks  by  which  she 
opened  the  conversation. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  sir,"  commenced  the 
lady  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  to  speak  to  you 
about  Captain  Charles  Pimontel." 

The  veteran  soldier,  believing  she  was 
his  betrothed,  that  she  was  torn  by  cruel 
destiny  from  the  object  of  her  affections,  en 
deavored  to  soothe  her  troubled  spirit  by 
the  balm  of  kindness  and  consolation. 

"Ah!  madame,"  he  replied  in  his  bland- 


1 8  6  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

est  manner,  "  if  report  be  true,  a  cruel  fate 
has  removed  him  for  a  while  from  thy 
embrace.  Young-,  brave,  and  amiable,  he 
was  the  darling  of  our  troops,  and  fortune 
seemed  to  lead  our  gallant  young  captain 
to  a  brilliant  career;  but  some  foul  assas 
sin's  hand  has  cut  the  flower  ere  it  b'oomed ; 
destiny,  as  cruel  as  it  has  been  mysterious, 
has  darkened  his  sun  ere  yet  it  shone  in 
the  zenith  of  day  !  " 

"Oh!  sir,  it  may  not  yet  be  true  that  he 
has  met  such  a  sad  fate,"  retorted  the  lady. 

"Alas!"  replied  the  commandant,  "yes 
terday  evening  the  youth's  body  was 
washed  up  on  our  beach ;  the  wounds  of 
twenty  stilettos  gaped  on  his  mangled 
corpse,  and  the  lampreys  of  our  bay  fed 
on  his  noble  flesh  as  they  would  on  the 
vile  slaves  cast  to  them  by  the  monster 
Nero.  These  eyes  have  seen  the  horrid 
sight;  though  we  could  not  recognize  the 
brave  youth,  we  wept  as  if  our  own  son 
had  fallen  by  cowardly  hands." 

The  old  commandant  was  somewhat 
excited ;  before  the  warm  tear  had  welled 


Alvira,  tJie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    187 

from  the  fountains  of  sympathy,  the  young 
lady  spoke  in  an  animated  and  excited 
manner  : 

"  But,  sir,  there  is  surely  some  mistake. 
It  cannot  be  said  Charles  Pimontel  was 
murdered;  does  it  follow  because  the  un 
recognized  body  of  some  hapless  victim 
of  a  street  brawl  has  been  washed  on  the 
beach  that  it  must  necessarily  be  the  body 
of  the  captain?  Do  you  not  think  his 
murderers  would  pay  clearly  for  this  attack 
on  him  ?  Have  any  witnesses  come  for 
ward  to  swear  to  his  assassination  ?  I  will 
not  believe  in  his  death  until  stronger 
proofs  have  been  given ;  and  I  may  be 
intruding  on  the  precious  time  of  our  com 
mandant,  but  I  have  sought  this  interview 
with  you  to  warn  you  against  the  popular 
rumor  that  you  have  found  the  murdered 
remains  of  Charles  Pimontel." 

"  Love,  madame,"  rejoined  the  comman 
dant  sentimentally,  "  clings  to  forlorn  hopes, 
and  in  its  sea  of  trouble  will  grasp  at  straws. 
The  whole  city  has  proclaimed  the  murder 
of  the  captain  ;  our  military  chapel  is 


1 88  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

draped  in  gloom,  and  I  have  given  orders 
that  ail  the  garrison  be  in  attendance  on 
the  morrow  at  the  obsequies." 

The  lady,  who  at  first  intended  a  strange 
surprise  for  the  commanding  officer,  bega.i 
to  fear  things  were  going  too  far,  and  thai 
no  time  was  to  be  lost  in  declaring  the  n  ;.! 
fate  of  the  captain.  She  arose  quick  , 
and,  approaching  near  to  him,  spoke  uiiii 
strong  emphasis : 

''  I  beseech  you,  sir,  to  stay  these  pro 
ceedings;  I  tell  you  on  my  word  of  honor 
the  captain  is  not  dead." 

"  Then  you  know  something  of  him  ?  " 
interrupted  the  commandant.  "  I  com 
mand  you,  madame,  in  the  name  of  the 
King,  to  tell  me  of  his  whereabouts.  If 
he  has,  without  sufficient  cause,  absented 
himself  from  military  duty,  by  my  sword 
the  rash  youth  shall  be  punished.  Be 
sides  playing  the  fool  with  the  people,  the 
inviolable  sanctity  of  the  military  constitu 
tions  has  been  violated.  Madame,  your 
lover,  perhaps,  has  forgotten  himself  over 
his  cups.  If  secreted  within  these  walls, 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    189 

produce  him,  that  he  may  know,  for  thy 
sake,  and  in  consideration  of  his  first 
fault,  the  leniency  of  his  sentence  for  vio 
lation  of  our  military  rule." 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  young  woman,  draw 
ing  herself  up  majestically,  and  fearlessly 
confronting  the  aged  officer,  whose  invio 
lable  fidelity  to  military  honor  made  him 
warm  in  his  indignation  at  the  supposed 
delinquency  of  his  subaltern — "sir,  the 
secret  of  the  captain's  absence  and  his 
present  abode  is  committed  to  me  ;  but  I 
shall  not  divulge  the  information  you  ask 
until  you  promise  me  that,  having  shown 
you  reasonable  cause  for  his  seeming  fault, 
you  will  not  only  acquit  him  of  his  sup 
posed  crime  of  dereliction  of  duty,  but  that 
his  honor  shall  be  preserved  unstained  be 
fore  his  fellow -officers  and  men." 

The  proposition  seemed  honorable  to 
the  commandant,  and  he  immediately  re 
plied  : 

"  I  swear  by  my  sword  it  shall  be  so." 

"Then,  sir,  see  before  you  the  offender. 
I  am  Charles  Pimoritel!'' 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

REPENTANCE. 

ON  the  road  that  led  the  traveller  to  the 
ancient  village  of  Torre  del  Greco,  and 
about  a  mile  from  the  populous  parts  of 
the  city,  there  stood  a  neat  little  cottage. 
In  the  front  there  was  a  flower  garden, 
small  but  charmingly  pretty ;  the  doors 
and  windows  were  surrounded  with  a 
woodbine  creeper  that  gave  an  air  of 
comfort  to  the  little  dwelling.  The  door 
was  ever  closed.  Few  were  seen  to  pass 
in  and  out,  and  no  noise  ever  betrayed  the 
presence  of  its  inmates. 

Here  for  many  years  our  young  peni 
tent  Alvira  passed  a  holy  and  solitary 
life.  After  the  stirring  scenes  of  the  pre 
ceding  chapters,  Father  Francis  procured 
from  the  military  authorities  for  his  Mag 
dalen,  as  he  was  wont  to  call  her,  the  full 


190 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    191 

pay  of  a  captain  as  a  retiring  pension. 
This  remarkable  circumstance  may  be  au 
thenticated  by  reference  to  the  military 
books  still  preserved  in  the  archives  of  the 
Molo  at  Naples.  Her  rank  and  pension 
were  confirmed  by  the  king. 

Under  the  able  direction  of  the  man  of 
God,  Alvira  gave  herself  to  full  correspon 
dence  with  the  extraordinary  graces  offered 
by  our  blessed  Lord.  Her  austerities  and 
fervor  increased  until  they  reached  the  de 
grees  of  heroic  sanctity.  She  knelt  and 
wept  for  hours  before  her  crucifix;  she 
slept  on  hard  boards  and  only  allowed  her 
self  sufficient  to  meet  the  demand  of  na 
ture.  She  lived  on  herbs,  and  the  fast  of 
Lent  was  so  severe  that  Father  Francis 
saw  a  miraculous  preservation.  Long  be 
fore  daylight  she  knelt  on  the  steps  of  the 
Gesii  waiting  for  the  opening  of  the  doors, 
and  this  austerity  she  never  failed  to  prac 
tise  in  the  midst  of  rain  or  cold,  until  her 
last  illness  chained  her  involuntarily  to  her 
couch,  where  her  submission  to  the  will 
of  God  was  equally  meritorious. 


192    Alvira>  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

Several  terrible  scenes  of  judgment,  sent 
by  Almighty  God  on  unrepentant  sinners, 
had,  in  the  very  commencement  of  her 
conversion,  a  most  salutary  influence  on  the 
feeble  struggles  of  Alvira.  Her  confidence 
in  the  Blessed  Virgin  was  much  enhanced 
by  a  severe  act  of  St.  Francis  towards  one 
of  the  members  of  the  Congregation  of  the 
Most  Holy  Mother. 

A  young  man  of  this  congregation  got 
suddenly  rich,  and,  with  wealth,  self-conceit 
and  pride  entered  his  heart.  He  consider 
ed  it  necessary,  to  preserve  his  respecta 
bility,  to  separate  himself  from  the  humble 
society  he  hitherto  frequented,  and  cease 
to  be  a  member  of  the  Congregation  of 
the  Madonna,  composed  of  industrious 
and  virtuous  youths  who  labored  hon 
estly  for  their  livelihood.  St.  Francis,  on 
hearing  of  this  slight  on  the  congrega 
tion  and  insult  to  Mary,  was  fired  with  a 
holy  indignation.  He  sought  the  young 
man,  and  rang  in  his  ears  the  prophetic 
warnings  which,  in  the  case  of  this  great 
saint,  were  never  uttered  in  vain  to  the 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.   193 

unheeding.  Again  and  again  St.  Francis 
warned,  but  pride  was  still  triumphant. 
One  Sunday  afternoon,  after  the  usual 
meeting  of  the  confraternity,  the  saint 
went  to  the  altar  of  sodality  ;  it  was 
the  altar  of  the  Dolors.  Seven  daggers 
seemed  to  pierce  the  Virgin's  heart.  As 
cending  the  altar,  he  cast  a  sorrowful 
glance  on  the  weeping  countenance  of  the 
Queen  of  Sorrows,  and  said:  "  Most  Holy 
Virgin,  this  young  man  has  been  for  you  a 
most  acute  sword,  piercing  your  heart;  be 
hold,  I  will  relieve  you  of  it."  So  saying, 
he  took  one  of  the  poniards  from  the 
statue,  and  at  the  same  time  announced 
to  the  members  that  the  proud  young 
man  was  expelled  from  the  congregation. 

Let  those  who  fancy  that  such  reproba 
tions  have  not  a  corresponding  echo  in  the 
judgments  of  God  tremble  in  reading  the 
effects  of  this  simple  but  terrible  excommu 
nication. 

Like  sand  through  the  perforated  vessel, 
the  young  man's  wealth  passed  away;  one 
month  found  him  a  cringing  debtor,  another 


194   Atvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

found  him  a  beggar,  a  third  found  him  dy 
ing  in  a  public  institution,  abandoned,  by 
God  and  man. 

On  another  occasion  Alvira  was  present 
when  a  terrible  judgment  of  God  upon  a 
hardened  sinner  thrilled  the  whole  city 
with  awe.  St.  Francis  was  preaching  in 
one  of  the  streets  during  Lent.  He  hap 
pened  to  pause  and  address  a  crowd  near 
the  house  of  an  impious,  ill  conducted  wo 
man,  who  came  immediately  to  her  window 
to  laugh  and  mock  at  the  man  of  God. 
Having  gratified  herself  to  the  disgust 
of  the  crowd,  she  finally  slammed  ID  the 
window  violently,  uttering  at  the  same 
time  some  filthy  and  unbecoming  remark. 
St.  Francis  stood  immovable  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  his  eye  was  fixed  on  heaven ;  and 
then,  in  a  voice  heard  half  over  the  city, 
he  cried  out:  "  My  God,  how  terrible  are 
thy  judgments  !  That  unfortunate  woman 
has  dropped  dead." 

The  groans  and  confusion  of  the  inmates 
soon  convinced  the  crowd  of  the  awful  fact, 
for  the  corpse  of  the  hapless  wretch  was 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.   195 

brought  into  the  street,  where  it  was  ex 
posed  to  the  terrified  people. 

These  and  similar  instances  of  the  judg 
ment  of  God  witnessed  by  Alvira  had  a 
salutary  effection  her  trembling  soul.  The 
fear  of  God,  which  is  the  beginning  of 
wisdom,  erected  its  watch-tower  around 
the  citadel  of  her  heart ;  the  virtues,  once 
entered,  were  not  permitted  to  flee,  and 
soon  won  for  this  penitent  soul  the  sweets 
of  the  illuminative  degree  of  sanctity. 

St.  Francis,  a  master  in  the  science  of 
the  saints,  soon  recognized  the  extraordi- 
naty  graces  destined  for  this  chosen  soul. 
Full  of  gratitude  and  love  for  God,  he  spared 
no  effort  to  correspond  with  the  sublime  des 
tiny  entrusted  to  him  ;  hence  in  the  after- 
history  of  those  two  holy  souls  the  marvels 
of  virtue  and  sanctity  intermingled,  so  that 
at  times  it  would  seem  doubtful  whether 
the  miracles  recorded  were  given  to  the 
exalted  sanctity  and  zeal  of  the  holy  priest 
or  to  the  weeping  virgin  penitent,  so  pri 
vileged  and  so  loved  in  the  forgiving  mercy 
of  God. 


196  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

On  one  occasion  a  young  mother  lost  her 
infant.  Death  had  stricken  the  little  flower 
ere  it  had  blossomed.  The  mother  was 
poor  and  unable  to  bury  the  child.  With 
an  unbounded  confidence  in  the  charity 
and  zeal  of  St.  Francis,  the  bright  thought 
struck  her:  If  she  could  only  get  this  good 
man  interested  in  her  behalf,  all  would  be 
accomplished.  Accordingly,  she  made  for 
the  church  of  the  Gesu  by  daylight.  Only 
one  individual  was  before  her  waiting  for 
the  church  to  be  opened.  It  was  Magda 
len.  Even  from  Magdalen  she  concealed 
the  object  of  her  early  visit,  and  pressed 
closer  to  her  heart  the  dead  treasure  she 
intended  as  a  present  for  Father  Fran 
cis.  The  church  opened;  she  stole  around 
the  dark  aisles,  whence  the  daylight  had  not 
yet  banished  the  shades  of  night,  and  noise 
lessly  approached  the  confessional  of  the 
holy  man.  She  placed  the  dead  child  on 
the  seat,  and  hurried  to  some  recess  of  the 
great  church,  where  she  could  watch  the 
happy  issue  of  this  ingenious  mode  of  dis 
posing  of  her  child.  The  early  morning 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius    19; 

hours  wore  away,  and  at  length  the  wished- 
for  moment  came.  The  vestry  door  is  open 
ed.  The  tall,  mortified  form  01  St.  Francis 
appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  He  prayed 
awhile,  and  rose  to  go  to  his  confessional. 
But  the  young  mother  watched  with  her 
heart  leaping  to  her  mouth.  He  did  not 
go  to  his  tribunal ;  he  moved  majestically 
down  the  church,  and  came  to  Magdalen's 
corner  where  Alvira  was  wrapt  in  prayer. 
He  whispered  something  to  her  •  they 
prayed  a  moment,  then  Alvira  flitted  like  a 
shadow  through  the  dark  aisles  towards  the 
confessional  of  Father  Francis.  She  entered 
and  took  the  infant  child  in  her  arms.  The 
child  was  alive  •  The  mother  came  rush 
ing  from  her  hiding-place  to  claim  the  in 
fant,  and  when  she  received  it  into  her  em 
brace  the  man  of  God  raised  his  index  fin 
ger  in  the  act  of  warning,  and  with  a  sweet, 
forgiving  smile  on  his  countenance>  said  to 
the  young  mother  :  "  My  child,  don't  put 
any  more  dead  babies  in  my  confessional." 
Alvira  had  to  undergo  a  severe  trial  in 
the  absence  of  Father  Francis.  He  was 


198   Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

directed  by  his  superiors  to  commence  his 
missions  in  the  country  districts,  and  was 
virtually  removed  from  Naples  for  some 
years.  Before  leaving,  he  fortified  his 
chosen  children  with  salutary  admonitions, 
but  for  Alvira  he  had  special  words  of  en 
couragement  and  consolation.  It  pleased 
God  to  let  him  know  in  her  behalf  that,  in 
return  for  her  sincere  repentance  and  deep 
devotion  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  before  her 
death  three  extraordinary  favors  would  be 
conferred  on  her,  which  would  also  be 
the  warning  of  the  setting  sun  of  her 
career  in  life.  Alvira  treasured  his  words 
in  her  heart,  and  in  deep  humility  won 
dered  at  the  goodness  of  God. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THE    PRIVILEGES    OF    HOLY    SOULS. 

AN  extraordinary  miracle  is  said,  in 
the  life  of  St.  Francis,  to  have  taken 
place  in  the  house  where  Alvirawas  present. 
St.  Francis  had  an  aged  brother  living  in 
the  city — a  man  of  eminent  sanctity,  but 
suffering  much  from  his  infirmities.  St. 
Francis  prevailed  on  Alvira  to  attend  him 
and  nurse  him  in  his  illness.  He  could 
not  have  been  trusted  to  more  tender  or 
willing  hands. 

Virtue  and  affection  lent  their  powerful 
aids  to  render  Alvira  a  charming  nurse. 
But  her  labor  of  love  was  not  very  pro 
tracted,  for  it  pleased  God  to  cast  the  last 
and  fatal  fever  oi>  Cataldus,  the  invalid 
brother  of  the  saint.  At  the  time  the  ma 
lady  was  increasing  and  death  imminent, 

m 


2oo  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

St.  Francis  was  absent  from  the  city  on  a 
mission  at  Recale,  a  place  about  sixteen 
miles  from  Naples.  Cataldus  prayed  to  be 
permitted  to  see  his  brother  before  death 
but  the  malady  seemed  to  increase  so  ra 
pidly  there  was  very  slight  probability  of 
his  return  in  time. 

Alvira  had  retired  to  an  adjoining  apart 
ment  to  seek  relief  in  prayer.  She  sud 
denly  heard  some  strange  sounds  in  the 
room  of  her  patient.  She  flew  towards 
the  chamber,  and  there,  to  her  astonish 
ment,  she  beheld  St.  Francis  embracing 
his  brother. 

"  Go,"  said  the  saintly  man  to  the  in 
valid — "oro  with  courao-e  and  confidence 

o  o 

whither  God  thy  father  call?  thee,  and 
where  the  saints  await  thee.  Remember 
God  is  a  good  master,  and  \ ;  now  that  in 
a  short  time  I  will  follow  thee." 

Then  drawing  Alvii'a  aside,  he  whispered 
to  her:  "My  child,  know  that  Cataldus  is 
going  with  rapid  strides  to  eternity.  You 
must  still  assist  him  with  love  and  pa 
tience.  To-night  at  four  he  will  die,  J 


Alvira,  tJie  Heroine  of  Vesuvius-    201 

must  be    away    now,    but    I    hope    to    see 
him  aofain  before  he  dies." 

o 

Having  thus  spoken,  alone  and,  contrary 
to  his  custom,  without  any  one  to  accom 
pany  him,  he  left  the  house.  Catal- 
dus,  Alvira,  and  a  servant  in  the  house 
testified  to  having  seen  him  in  Naples  in 
their  house  ;  the  servant  even  testified  that 
he  entered  through  closed  doors ;  whilst  two 
fathers  who  were  with  him  at  Recale  gave 
sworn  testimony  that  St.  Francis 'was  with 
them  at  the  very  time  he  was  seen  and 
spoken  to  at  Naples. 

And  when  the  hour  foreseen  by  this 
great  saint,  in  which  death  was  to  place 
his  cold  hand  .on  the  brow  of  Cataldus,  was 
at  hand,  the  couch  of  the  dying  was  again 
blessed  by  his  spirit;  but  Alvira  did  not 
on  this  occasion  see  him,  but  she  saw  the 
recognition  that  cast  a  beam  of  joy  over 
the  face  of  the  dying  man,  and  she  heard 
the  sweet  accents  of  consolation  the  saint 
was  permitted  to  impart. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

A     VISION     OF     PURGATORY A     DEAR     ONE 

SAVED. 

LIKE  lengthening  shadows  of  evening 
creeping  over  the  silent  ruin,  death  was 
fast  drawing  the  shades  of  its  final  night 
over  the  austerities  and  the  virtues  of  Al- 
vira.  The  promises  of  St.  Francis  filled 
her  heart  with  a  cup  of  joy  that  rarely  falls 
to  the  lot  of  mortals  this  side  the  grave. 

Vespers  are'finished  at  the  Gesu;  the  or 
gan  is  silent,  the  crowd  have  departed,  and^ 
in  the  mellow  twilight  of  an  autumn  eve,  we 
discern  only  a  few  pious  souls  crouched  be 
hind  the  pillars,  or  pouring  forth  their  last 
fervent  aspirations  before  some  favorite 
altar  or  saintly  shrine.  Soon  all  have  left, 
and  the  silence  of  the  abandoned  sanctu 
ary  shrouds  the  fabric  in  greater  solemnity. 
The  aromatic  incense  still  floats  in  nebu 
lous  veils  around  the  tabernacle, 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    203 

A  loud  breathing,  an  expression  of  joy 
from  a  dark  recess,  announced  the  pre 
sence  of  some  one  still  in  the  church.  The 
sounds  came  from  the  quarter  known  to  the 
pious  frequenters  of  the  church  as  Magda 
len' ;  corner,  so  named  because  there  was 
near  to  it  an  altar  dedicated  to  the  great 
penitent  St.  Magdalen,  and  because  here 
St.  Francis'  Magdalen  spent  long  hours  in 
tears  and  prayer.  On  the  evening  in  ques 
tion  Alvira  had  remained  longer  than  usual 
to  commune  with  Almighty  God.  It  was  a 
festival  day,  and. her  soul  felt  all  the  glow 
of  fervor  and  spiritual  joy  which  at  times 
wraps  the  pious  spirit  into  foretastes  of  ce 
lestial  happiness.  The  hours -passed  swift 
ly  by,  for  fervent  prayer  is  not  tedious  to 
the  loving. 

She  pondered  in  her  mind  what  could  be 
the  graces  or  favors  promised  her  in  the 
last  interview  with  her  spiritual  director. 
Her  humility  had  not  dared  to  seek  fa 
vors  ;  she  was  still  overwhelmed  with  the 
thought  of  the  bitter  past ;  more  time  for 
repentance  would  be  the  signal  favor  she 


204  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

would  venture  to  solicit  from  the  God  she 
had  so  much  offended. 

Yet  the  mercy  and  goodness  of  God  are 
more  mysterious  to  us  mortals  when  we 
consider  them  lavished  in  extraordinary 
munificence  on  the  souls  of  poor  sinners. 
When  we  feel  crushed  to  the  earth  in  our 
unworthiness,  the  forgiving  spirit  of  God 
lifts  us  up  and  pours  around  us  consola 
tions  which  are  the  privilege  of  the  in 
nocent.  Thus  the  humble  Alvira  little 
dreamt  what  miofht  be  the  grand  conso- 

o  o 

lations  destined  for  her;  but  the  time  of 
their  fulfilment  has  come,  and  we  find  her 
startled  from  an  ecstasy  in  the  church  in 
which  one  of  the  promised  favors  was  be 
stowed  on  this  child  *..f  grace.  She  de 
scribed  to  Father  Francis  what  happened 
with  many  tears  of  joy. 

Whilst  wrapt  in  prayer  in  the  lonely  mo 
ments  that  followed  the  Benediction  -of  the 
Most  Holy  Sacrament  and  the  closing  of 
the  church  doors,  she  suddenly  saw  the 
altar  and  sanctuary  disappear,  and  in  their 
stead  a  luminous  bank  of  moving  clouds; 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    205 

they  were  white  as  the  snow-drift,  and 
crystallized  in  a  flood  of  light  like  Alpine 
peaks  in  the  winter  sunshine 

These  clouds  moved  rapidly  before  her 
astonished  gaze ;  occasionally  she  saw 
through  their  rents  a  tinge  of  red  flame  that 
glowed  in  the  fleecy  mist  like  the  crimson 
linings  of  the  sunset.  The  brighter  clouds 
gradually  faded  ;  the  flames  became  fiercer 
and  more  distinct ;  they  seemed  to  leap  in 
fury  around  the  altar  and  sarctuary.  Al- 
vira  struggled  in  doubt  for  a  moment. 
Perhaps  a  real  conflagration  was  consum 
ing  the  tabernacle.  A  scream  of  agony- 
was  already  on  her  lips,  when  the  scene 
glided  into  a  still  more  vivid  reanty,  leav 
ing  no  doubt  as  to  its  character.  In  the 
burning  element  human  beings  appeared 
writhing  in  pain  ;  angels  of  dazzling  bright 
ness  floated  over  the  fire,  and  every  moment 
caught  ihe  outstretched  arms  of  some  for 
tunate  soul  whose  purgatorial  probation  had 
terminated ;  the  angel  would  carry  the  soul 
to  a  distant  sphere  of  brightness  whither 
Al\  ira's  weak  mortal  gaze  could  not  follow. 


206  Alvira,  the  Hernine  of  Vesuvius. 

Suddenly  there  darted  from  the  far  light 
an  angel  clothed  with  the  brilliancy  of  the 
sun.  With  the  speed  of  lightning  he 
plunged  far  down  the  purgatory  of  fire;  his 
brightness  was  so  great  that  Alvira  could 
follow  him  even  through  the  flames.  There 
the  angel  found  a  young,  beautiful  soul, 
deep  in  agony,  clothed  with  crimson  fire. 
A  smile  of  ineffable  joy  lit  up  the  counte 
nance  of  the  sufferer — the  message  from 
heaven  was  understood.  The  angel  lifted 
this  soul  from  the  fire,  and,  pausing  for  a 
moment  on  the  peak  of  a  lambent  flame, 
the  angelic  deliverer  and  the  liberated  soul, 
now  become  angelic  in  brilliancy,  paused 
to  look  and  smile  on  Alvira. 

Her  heart  leaped,  her  soul  trembled. 
She  recognized  the  features.  In  a  convul 
sive  effort  to  utter  the  loved  name  of 
Aloysia,  the  vision  passed  away,  and  she 
found  herself  in  the  dark  church  and  on 
the  cold  flags,  weeping  away  the  over 
flow  of  a  heart  too  full  of  joy. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

UNEXPECTED    MEETING. 

LATE  on  a  cold  night  in  the  winter  of 
1706  a  sick-cail  came  to  the  Jesuit  college 
attached  to  the  Gesu.  Alvira  Gassier  was 
ill,  and  requested  the  attendance  of  one  of 
the  fathers. 

Some  months  had  passed  since  the  con 
soling  vision  in  which  she  saw  the  purified 
soul  of  Aloysia  carried  to  a  crown  of  im 
mortal  bliss.  Since  then  the  great  St. 
Francis  had  passed  to  his  crown.  His 
holy  spirit  hovered  in  protecting  love  over 
Alvira.  She  recurred  to  him  in  her  trou 
bles,  and  always  with  remarkable  success. 
Miracles  of  cures  and  conversions,  effected 
through  the  humble  prayers  of  the  peni 
tent  and  the  powerful  intercession  of  the 
deceased  apostle,  are  registered  in  the 

207 


208  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

great  book  of  life,  to  be  read  on  the 
great  accounting-day. 

Alvira  sighed  over  the  prolongation  of 
her  exile.  Her  heart  longed  to  be  with 
Christ  ;  she  soared  in  spirit  over  the  abyss 
that  separated  her  from  the  object  she 
loved. 

Yet  two   more  sicrns  were  to  announce 

o 

the  happy  moment  of  freedom.  She  knew 
the  fate  of  Aloysia,  raised  from  the  search 
ing  flame  and  introduced  to  the  saints,  was 
the  first  of  these  favors  promised  by  St. 
Francis.  The  other  was  equally  extraor 
dinary. 

The  illness   of  Alvira  caused  a  sio-h  of 

o 

regret  at  the  Jesuit  College.  Every  one 
whose  heart  was  interested  in  the  glory  of 
God  would  have  reason  to  sigh  over  her 
lost  example,  her  influence  over  sinners, 
and  the  edification  of  her  exalted  virtues. 

A  priest  is  wrapped  in  his  cloak;  he 
carries  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  and  the 
holv  oils.  A  levite  accompanies  him,  carry 
ing  a  lamp  and  rin^iiiLT  a  bell.  Unmind- 

o  1.  o        o 

ful  of  the   inclemency  of  the  weather,  they 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesiivius.   209 

move  cm  through  the  abandoned  streets, 
now  filled  by  crowds  of  unseen  angels, 
who  take  the  place  of  man  and  honor  the 
Holy  of  Holies. 

The  priest  is  a  young  Frenchman  who 
has  just  come  to  Naples.  To  confer  a 
favor  on  Alvira,  the  superior  sent  him  to 
St.  Francis's  penitent  rhat  she  might  have 
the  consolation  of  her  cvvn  language  at  the 
trying  hour  of  death.  He  is  a  tall,  thin 
figure  on  the  decline  of  manhood;  in  the 
graceful  outline  of  feature?  sweet  and  at 
tractive  we  read  the  marks  ?f  much  morti 
fication.  A  halo  of  religion  and  sanctity 
envelopes  him  with  that  referential  awe 
we  give  to  true  virtue. 

He  has  entered  the  room.  Alvira 
starts. 

She  has  seen  that  face  before  ;  that  no 
ble  brow  ;  that  lofty  mien  ;  that  irresistible 
sweetness  of  look.  He  is  some  acquain 
tance,  perhaps  met  casual' y  in  the  rambles 
of  youthful  folly.  Reverence  for  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  banished  further  curi 
osity,  and  Alvira,  with  closed  eyes  and 


2io  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

hands  folded  on  her  crucifix,  joined  in  the 
solemn  prayers  recited  on  such  occasions. 

When  all  the  prescribed  ceremonies  were 
completed,  the  good  priest  drew  near  the 
couch  of  the  suffering  invalid,  and,  allowing 
a  moment  for  a  relaxation  of  thought  and 
for  conversation,  mildly  enquired  if  she  suf 
fered  much  pa'in. 

"  So  they  tell  me  you  have  come  from 
Paris,  my  child,"  we  fancy  we  hear  the 
good  father  commencing  a  conversation 
that  leads  to  a  strange  discovery. 

"  Yes,  father,  'tis  my  native  city." 

"  And  what  was  your  family  name  ?  " 

"  Gassier." 

"Gassier!"  replied  the  priest,  with  a 
thrill  of  surprise.  "  Did  he  live  in  Rue  de 
Seine  ? " 

"  Yes,  father." 

"You  had  a  sister? " 

"Yes;  but  she  is  now  in  heaven.  She 
was  killed  on  Mount  Vesuvius."  Alvira 
wept. 

A  startling  suspicion  had  crept  over  the 
good  priest.  Was  it  possible  that  the  inva- 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    211 

lid  sinking  into  eternity  in  a  sunset  of  sanc 
tity  and  of  heroic  penance,  formerly  the 
chivalrous  captain  of  Vesuvian  fame,  was 
no  other  than  his  own  sister  ? 

"And  what  became  of  your  brother?" 
asked  the  Jesuit  after  a  pause,  and  looking 
anxiously  into  Alvira's  emaciated  counte 
nance. 

"  Ah  !  father,"  she  replied,  "  I  would  give 
worlds  to  know.  About  thirty  years  ago, 
when  our  home  was  comfortable,  he  sud 
denly  disappeared  from  us  ;  no  one  could 
tell  what  became  of  him  ;  we  knew  he  was 
called  by  God  to  a  holy  life,  and  it  was 
our  impression  at  the  time  he  fled  to  join 
some  strict  religious  order.  Poor  dear 
Aloysia  and  myself  used  to  pain  him  by 
turning  his  pious  intentions  to  ridicule. 
His  disappearance  broke  my  poor  mother's 
heart,  for  she  died  very  soon  afterwards." 

A  long,  deep  silence  ensued.  Pere 
Augfustin — for  that  was  his  name  in  re- 

o 

ligion— held  his  hands  clasped  up  at  his 
lips  whilst  Alvira  was  speaking.  He  re 
mained  motionless ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 


212   A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

a  spot  on  the  floor.  It  was  evident  a  strug 
gle  was  going  on  within  him.  There 
could  be  no  longer  any  doubt,  and  he 
was  puzzled  whether  he  should  declare 
himself  at  once  to  be  the  lost  Louis  Marie, 
or  bide  his  time  and  break  it  gently  to  her. 
As  if  seeking  more  time  for  deliberation, 
he  asked  her  another  question  :  "  And, 
my  child,  what  became  of  your  father?" 

Ah  !  how  little  did  he  dream  of  the 
wound  he  was  tearing  open.  His  enquiry 
was  the  signal  for  a  new  burst  of  grief 
from  the  broken-hearted  Alvira.  She 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  wept 
violently.  She  remained  so  for  several 
minutes.  This  made  Pere  Augustin  de 
termine  his  course  of  action.  As  he  had 
caused  her  so  much  pain,  he  must  now 
console  her  by  letting  her  know  who  he 
is.  Drawing  nearer  to  her,  he  bade  her 
be  consoled,  for  he  had  some  good  news 
to  give  her ;  and  Alvira,  after  a  great 
effort,  raised  her  head  and  said: 

"  It  is  kind  of  you,  father,  very  kind  of 
you  indeed,  to  take  interest  in  my  affairs  ; 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.   213 

but  perhaps,  as  you  are  acquainted  with 
Paris  and  belong  to  the  Society  of  Jesus, 
you  may  know  something  of  my  brother. 
Poor  Louis  Marie  !  I  should  like  to  know 
if  he  is  well,  and  happy,  and  good.  Do 
tell  me  me,  father,  if  you  know  anything 
of  him." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answered  the  father  quick- 

ly- 

"  Is  he  alive?" 

"  Yes  !  " 

"  And  happy  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Here  ! "  cried  Louis  Marie,  bursting 
into  tears — "here,  within  the  grasp  of  your 
hand." 

Could  joy  be  greater?  Those  two  holy 
souls  blended  into  one.  Like  Benedict  and 
Scholastica,  they  wept  and  smiled  together 
in  alternate  raptures  of  joy  and  grief. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

CONCLUSION. 

Now  reft  of  all,  faint,  feeble,  prest  with  age, 
We  mark  her  feelings  in  the  last  great  stage  ; 
The  feverish  hopes,  the  fears,  the  cares  of  life, 
No  more  oppress  her  with  torturing  strife  ; 
The  chivalrous  spirit  of  her  early  day 
Has  passed  with  beauty  and  with  youth  away. 
As  oft  the  traveller  who  beholds  the  sun 
Sinking  before  him  ere  yet  his  journey's  done, 
Regrets  in  vain  to  lose  its  noontide  power, 
Yet  hails  the  coolness  of  the  evening  hour, 
She  feels  a  holy  and  divine  repose 
Rest  on  her  spirit  in  the  twilight  close  ; 
Although  her  passions  ruled  in  their  might, 
Now  vanquished,  brighter  burns  the  inward  light, 
Guiding  the  spirit  by  its  sacred  ray 
To  cast  its  mortal  coil  and  cares  away, 
And  list  its  summons  to  eternal  day. 

TOSSED  on  a  restless  ocean,  and  surviv 
ing  a  long  and  stormy  voyage,  how  the 
sight  of  the  verdant  hills  and  the  spires  of 

the  nearing  port  must  cheer    the  wearied 
8U 


A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius..  2  i  5 

mariner  !  Joy  has  its  sunbeams  to  light 
up  every  countenance.  Merry  the  song 
that  keeps  tune  with  the  revolving  capstan. 
Old  memories  are  awakened  and  dormant 
affections  roused ;  the  husband,  the  father, 
the  exile,  each  has  a  train  of  thought  lad 
en  with  bright  anticipations.  Fancy  and 
hope  hasten  to  wave  their  magic  wings 
over  the  elated  heart,  and  contribute  the 
balm  of  ideal  charms  to  make  even  one 
moment  of  mortal  life  a  happiness  without 
alloy. 

The  wearied  mariner  returning  home, 
quaffing  a  cup  of  joy,  is  a  faint  but  truth 
ful  simile  to  represent  the  pious  soul  in 
sight  of  the  port  of  eternal  bliss,  where 
loved  ones  are  hailing  from  afar  their  wel 
come  to  the  successful  mariner  from  the 
troubled  sea  of  time.  Life  has  its  storms 
and  its  calms,  its  casualties  and  dangers  ; 
it  also  has  the  bright  twilight  in  the 
shadow  of  those  eternal  hills  where  exist 
ence  is  immortal  and  joy  beatific  and  un 
clouded. 

Alvira,  the  heroine  of  our  sketch,  is  now 


216  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

the   faithful  soul  standing  on  the  bark  in 
view  of  her  eternal  home. 

The  consolations  promised  by  her  saint 
ed  guardian  have  twice  tolled  the  death- 
knell  ;  once  more  some  great  joy  will 
strike  the  last  fibre  of  a  heart  long  tuned 
to  spiritual  happiness,  and  will  break  the 
last  chain  that  imprisons  a  spirit  longing 
to  soar  on  high. 

In  the  deceptive  phases  of  the  consump 
tive  malady  she  rallied  at  times;  she  felt 
stronger — would  venture  out  to  the  homes 
of  the  poor,  and  faint  at  the  altar  of  Jesus. 
In  her  weakness  she  did  not  moderate  her 
austerities,  save  where  the  express  com 
mand  of  her  spiritual  director  manifested 
to  her  the  will  of  God.  Her  little  cottage 
was  surrounded  daily  by  the  poor  and  sick, 
who  were  her  friends,  and  many  and  sin 
cere  were  the  blessings  invoked  over  their 
benefactress. 

Long  and  interesting  were  her  conver 
sations  with  her  brother  Louis.  Her  his 
tory  as  known  to  herself  must  have  been 
replete  with  many  striking  events  besides 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.    217 

those  we  have  caught  up  from  a  scanty 
tradition  and  a  brief  pamphlet  biography. 
How  the  secrets  of  her  rambles  in  disguise 
must  have  brought  the  smile  and  the  blush 
to  the  countenance  of  her  simple-minded 
and  sainted  brother ! 

In  deep  and  natural  fraternal  affection, 
which  is  more  powerful  when  mellowed  by 
virtue,  Pere  Augustin  saw  the  hand  of 
death  making  each  day  new  traces  on  the 
frame  of  Alvira.  The  hectic  flush,  the 
frequent  faintings,  and  the  cold,  icy  grasp 
of  her  hand  told  the  energy  of  the  poi 
son  that  gnawed  at  the  vital  cords.  Sweet 
and  gentle  words  of  encouragement  ever 
flowed  from  his  lips.  With  eye  and  fin 
ger  ever  turning  towards  heaven,  whither 
his  own  soul  yearned,  he  calmed  the  anx 
ious  and  penitent  spirit  of  Alvira,  who  still 
feared  her  repentance  imcomplete. 

She  received  Holy  Communion  every 
day  from  the  hands  of  her  brother. 

What  ecstasies  of  grateful  love  filled  her 
breast  when  preparing  for  those  blissful 
moments  of  union  with  our  J31.es.sed  Lord ! 


2 1 8  A  Ivira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

Deep  and  eloquent  the  mysterious  breath 
ings  of  the  pure,  loving  heart.  It  has  a 
language  known  and  understood  only  by 
angels.  As  the  sun  melts  the  rocky  ice 
berg,  the  coldest  heart  melts  under  the 
loving,  burning  Sun  of  the  most  Holy 
Eucharist. 

At  length  the  bark  is  anchored  in  the 
port  of  rest ;  Alvira  is  summoned  to  her 
crown. 

The  midnight  of  July  16,  1717,  finds  her 
in  her  agony  ;  the  blest  candle  is  lighted; 
the  faithful  brother  priest  is  kneeling  by 
her  bed  ;  the  solemn  wail  of  the  privileged 
few  of  the  grateful  poor  is  carried  in 
mournful  cadence  from  the  chamber  of 
death. 

Yet  the  bell  has  not  tolled  the  third 
stroke  of  consolation.  Could  she  have 
misunderstood  the  prophetic  voice  of  her 
sainted  Father  Francis,  who  knew  the 
secrets  of  God  in  her  behalf?  But  no  ; 
the  favor  will  come — the  last  crowning,  in 
effable  favor  will  come  ;  it  is  at  hand. 

Alvira  has  opened,  her  eyes.     She  calls 


Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius.  '219 

her  brother  near;  with  a  smile,  the  sweet 
est  that  ever  lit  up  those  expressive  fea 
tures,  she  told  him  what  the  favor  would 
be.  Father  Francis  and  the  Blessed  Virgin 
would  see  her  before  she  should  die. 

Pere  Augustin  believes  the  shock  of  ap 
proaching  dissolution  has  weakened  her 
reasoning  faculty  ;  he  gently  chides  her, 
whispers  some  sweet  thought  of  humility, 
and  breathes  the  holy  name  that  banishes 
temptation. 

But,  lo  1  Alvira's  features  have  changed;; 
a  glow  of  ecstatic  beauty  has  suffused 
around  her;  the  light  of  another  land  is 
shed  on  her  couch.  Recognition  is  read 
on  her  looks. 

Pere  Augustin,  whose  innocence  and  vir 
tue  entitled  him  to  understand  the  privi 
leges  of  the  saints,  saw  the  splendor  of  a 
heavenly  light  that  filled  the  room,  and 
heard  from  Alvira's  lips  expressions  that 
left  no  doubt  on  llis  mind  of  the  promised 
visit  of  celestial  beings. 

The  light  faded,  and  from  the  feeble 
glare  of  the  candle  of  death  he  saw  the 


220  Alvira,  the  Heroine  of  Vesuvius. 

holy  spirit  of  his  sister  had  fled  ;  the  sweet 
ness  of  heavenly  joy  still  played  on  her 
marble  features,  and  the  smile  that  greeted 
the  heavenly  visitors  still  rested  on  her 
lips. 

Pere  Augustin  stood  over  the  couch  he 
had  bedewed  with  tears,  and  taking  a  long 
and  affectionate  glance  at  the  hallowed 
form  of  his  repentant  sister,  turned  towards 
the  weeping  people;  he  raised  his  hand 
towards  heaven,  and  solemnly  announced 
the  event  that  gave  a  festival  to  the  angels. 
His  voice  faltered  ;  he  pronounced  a  short 
and  eloquent  panegyric — "  A  saint  is 
dead ! " 

The  tableau  is  worth  remembering;  'tis 
the  last  beautiful  scene  in  the  eventful 
career  of  Maria  Alvira  Gassier  ! 


THE  END. 


Date  Due 


PRINTED    IN    U.S. 


CAT.   NO.   24    161 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  691  232     3 


